


The Lady of the Sky

by randompandemic



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Avvar AU, Avvar!Cullen AU, F/M, Slow Burn, eventual NSFW, plot heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:43:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 125,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4208361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randompandemic/pseuds/randompandemic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen is the thane of an Avvar hold home to the Frostback mountains, who has gained fame and respect among his people for driving a secret orlesian invasion out of their mountains. Róisín is a sheltered Circle mage torn from her home when the war between Mages and Templars escalates. And when the sky is torn open above Haven, the two most unlikely allies must come together to face a threat greater than their differences. (Inquisition AU where Cullen is an Avvar thane and the 'Inquisitor' is found by him and his Avvar hunters rather than Cassandra and the Chantry...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Mia cowered behind rocks, snow blending with the white fur of her coat made from the hide of white wolves. The arrow lay loosely in the bow as she watched the herd of wild rams below the hill. She had made sure to stay downwind to avoid detection and she had patiently stalked her prey for the better part of the last two hours. She had picked her prey, a male with strong horns and thick fur. It would provide a fine coat, and the horns would be used by the crafters, and the meat would feed her family for a while. It would be a good hunt. 

She drew in a slow, measured breath as she rose, very slowly, not drawing attention to her as she pulled the bowstring closer towards her, tensing it up, the arrow ready to be released. It would be a good hunt, she thought.  
It was not.

Before she even released the arrow to do its bloody purpose, a bright light caught her attention. She turned her head, saw in the corner of her eyes as the herd she had been following so patiently all this time scattered in panic. Yet it hardly mattered anymore. The sky had torn open in the mountains just ahead, a roaring, massive hole gaping in the cold blue, green bleeding through, dripping to the earth with anger and fury. An explosion followed, roaring through the mountains, causing snow to break off the side of the wall. 

“Shite!” Mia cursed under her breath, slipped through her bow and ran to the edge of the forest to find protection from the avalanche rolling down towards her. And the sky roared. And the sky burned.

* * *

“The scouts have returned.”

Branson peeked through the tent openings. His wild, blond brows in a tight knit frown and Cullen knew, the news were not good. He got up, followed his younger brother out of the tent. 

There was a group of tents set up in their small camp, their hunting party for gathering whatever they needed before their tribe would return to their hold for the winter, where they would be protected from the rage of Hakkon. The men were gathering, were talking, all at once, an unintelligible mess of shouts and chatter. 

They had been on edge ever since the sky tore open. The augur travelling with them had not found a satisfying solution for what had angered the Lady of the Skies so, and the mountain seemed to shake under their feet, indicating that Korth, too, was profoundly displeased with something. Their best hunters had agreed to scout the area to see what had transpired in that region. And now, almost a day later, they had returned.   

“What happened?” Cullen asked, his voice thundering over the excited mumblings. The men and women turned and nodded in greeting. Mia was the one to step forward. The one who had been closest to the disaster when it happened. 

“The Andrastian burial site. It was destroyed, it’s completely in ruins. We only saw it from far, but it appears to be stable now. We could venture closer, if you wish.”

Cullen frowned at he, then turned towards the augur. She was a small woman, old, her hands soft and wrinkled, her white long hair with dark feathers in it. The coat she wore was dark and so long it covered her head to toe. 

“What do the Gods say?” 

The augur gazed at the hole in the sky, the green shimmer spilling over the Frostback mountains. 

“The Lady has been wounded. We must learn what happened to her if we wish to heal her. If we cannot heal the sky, it will fall, and all is doomed.”  
Cullen nodded.

“You heard her. We pack up camp and travel to the ruin. If there are answers to be found, we will discover them!”

The men responded with battle cries of determination. 

It took them under an hour to tear down and wrap up their tents. A faster, more agile group led by the thane, Cullen, himself and his sister Mia, their most skilled hunter, moved ahead, while the men and women slower than the rest stayed behind and followed with all their belongings.

Cullen rode ahead, they crossed a mountain path so well hidden he doubted anyone other than their tribe knew of it, and then they crossed the path over to the ancient burial site. From up here, they could overlook the nearest valley, where the town of Haven had been built centuries ago. And there, just below, between them and the town, he could see the ruins of the temple. In the last weeks, this area had received much attention from the lowlanders. He had watched with concern and had decided to keep his people away from them. Lowlanders always meant trouble. They had moved their hunting grounds west and had stayed there. But whatever had happened here, it had been dramatic, it would seem. 

The temple was nothing but a husk of itself. Few walls still standing, most of them collapsed. The earth was burned and black and the stench of death hung fowl in the air. Green light came from the sky, and red light came from the earth. The ground was cracked, and red crystal burst from it, festering like a disease. The augur gasped.

“The earth is sick here. Not only the Lady has been wounded. Korth, too has been cut. Whatever happened here means death to all of us.”

“Should we turn around?” Cullen asked.

“No! We must not! We must learn how to heal the sky and the earth!”  
Cullen nodded and guided his horse to follow the snowy path down towards the temple.

As they came closer, the silence that fell was almost painful. They left their horses outside the blackened earth and continued on foot, Cullen and Mia ahead of the rest. The bones of the temple reached above them and in what seemed to be a courtyard, they found the first bodies. Human remains. They had been burned so quickly, their bodies were preserved in agonising poses, their skulls distorted by screams. Cullen was certain he could still hear the echo of the hundreds of deaths. 

“Why were all these people here…?” Mia asked. They had often seen pilgrims travel to this temple, to pay their respects to the human remains of their prophetess. The tribe cared not for Andraste or her disciples. She had been one of them once, in a time long since past, but she had chosen a new way of life and it was her choice to make. The tribe had nothing to do with her anymore. But even with the pilgrims, there had never been this many people. Hundreds, perhaps.  

This… this destruction, this death, poisoning the air. This was a scar the world would not heal from for a while.

“Doesn’t look like anyone survived…”

“Cullen!!” 

Mia calling his name pulled his attention immediately. He saw his sister, cowering on the floor beside a body with long robes covered in ashes and dirt. 

“This one yet draws breath!”

Cullen put away his sword and rushed to his sister’s side. The one she spoke of was a girl, young still, and though covered in dirt her skin was sun-kissed and her features of fair beauty. Her hair was short and dark, her robes foreign and of fine craft, hardly made for the harsh climate of the Frostbacks. How she, of all the people here, had survived, it was a miracle. But when Mia brushed hair from her face gently, the girl groaned in pain and exhaustion, tried to slap away the stranger’s hand. She did not open her eyes, was perhaps lost in a dream more than reality, but she was alive and did not seem to have a single scratch on her.  

“And she still has fight left in her, too.” Cullen noted surprised. 

The augur came closer to inspect that sole survivor more closely. 

“Robes… a mage. One of their leashed Circle mages, no doubt,” she said, inspecting the girl’s hand with the golden ring that had the signet of the Circle of Magi on it. She turned the hand over and, with a gasp, stepped away. 

“What?!” Mia asked alarmed. Cullen took the hand the augur had dropped and inspected the palm. It was the hand of a girl who had not done a single day of hard physical labour in her life. Soft skin, perhaps the softest he had ever touched, his hands rough and calloused by comparison. But there, in her palm, was a wound. The edges seemed burnt, there was no blood, but a green shimmer of the same shade as the light in the sky. He looked up. The shape was identical. The mark on this girls hand was identical to the tear in the sky.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“She was wounded, as the Lady was wounded. I believe whatever happened here… this girl is the key.”

“Thane!” 

Cullen looked up with a growl.

“What?!” he snapped. One of the men had climbed the nearest wall and kept a lookout.

“Lowlanders! They approach from the town!”

“They must look for the girl,” Mia said grimly. 

“Then we will make sure they will not find her. Cover our tracks, we make for the mountains!” he ordered. And immediately, their group was set in motion. He cowered down and pulled the unconscious girl into his arms, held her careful against him as he returned to his horse and for a moment, she seemed to nuzzle into the warm fur draped over his shoulders. Then she drifted off deeper into whatever dream held her captive. With Mia’s help, he climbed his sword and secured the girl in front of him, against his body. Once she would awaken, there were many questions that needed answering. But for now, she would live, and she would not be handed over to the Chantry. Not without answers. 

They left no traces behind.


	2. The Wrath of Heaven

Róisín woke in utter confusion. One moment, her mind was in green lights and she felt chased by nightmares, the next, she woke as if a switch had been pulled. In an unfamiliar room with flexible walls. A tent? She shuddered, it was cold even though she was wrapped in furs. And she was hungry. Maker’s breath she was starving! 

She groaned as she sat up, head spinning, blood throbbing painfully in her temples. She squeezed her eyes shut, rubbed her hands over her face with a loud sigh. 

“You wake.”

She jumped surprised at the sound of a strangers voice. Looking up, the flaps closing the tent entrance had parted and a woman had appeared. She was of muscular built, with long, thick curls of honey coloured hair falling over her shoulders, mingling with white fur on the collar and hood of her warm looking coat. 

The woman smiled brightly as she entered the tent. “Was going to leave this here for when you wake, but look at you, all up and about.”

She put down a wooden plate with jerked meat, fire toasted bread and some cheese on it, and a leather skin filled with a drink. Róisín felt herself groan relieved and she - quite un-ladylike - snatched the food from the stranger and started to wolf it down. She poured of the thick ale down her throat, nearly coughed it all up because she had taken too much too fast. Her eyes started tearing as she coughed for breath. The woman laughed. “Easy. There’s more, you won’t starve.” 

Ros looked up hesitantly, then back at the plate.

“Thank you…” 

“Don’t worry about it.” The woman replied as she sat down next to her. 

“Where… am I?”

“You’re in our camp. We found you at the ruins of the temple, after the explosion. You were… the only survivor.”

Ros blinked confused. Temple? Explosion? Only survivor?

“Wait… what… the… the Temple of Sacred Ashes? What… what happened at the temple?”

“We were hoping you could tell us.”

She shook her head.

“I… don’t remember anything. I…”

The woman watched her carefully, then rose to her feet.

“Come. I’ll show you.”

Ros looked up at the two hands ready to help her pull to her feet. She was reluctant, but she did accept the help. As she rose, she noticed her robes were stiff with dirt Completely unpresentable. She followed the other woman outside, stepped into bright light. There was a green shimmer to the sunlight reflecting off the snow covering the mountains. Ros blinked against the sudden brightness, paused in the entrance of the tent before she could take in where she was.

The camp the woman had spoken of consisted of a number of similar tents made from dark hide, covered with white fur to not only insulate their temperature but also to keep them well hidden against the snowy mountains. There was a fire pit between them. Horses tied together nearby and a group of men and women all dressed in fur hides, leather coats and trousers and with blue and white warpaint on their faces. 

_Almarri_. 

These people were of the ancient barbarian tribes of Ferelden. She knew very little about them, other than there were different tribes scattered across the wilderness of Ferelden and some even in other nations. She knew Andraste had been one of them, before the Maker chose her. She knew the Almarri were known as fearsome warriors, who braved the elements in the most hostile territories. She knew there were tribes like the Chasind in the Kocari Wilds, and she guessed – since these were the Frostbacks – this particular group had to be of the Avvar. And she knew the scary tales young girl were told, about brutish barbarian men who stole beautiful women from their homes to force themselves upon them and kept them as unwilling brides. It did not help that the moment she and the other woman stepped out of that tent, all eyes were on them. Men and women alike stared, wary of the stranger, keeping their distance, but she heard them mumble. “Look.”  

Ros turned to the sound of the woman’s voice and saw her point to the sky. Her gaze wandered up. And her heart skipped a beat. 

The sky was torn wide open. Bright green light seeped through, a pull of magic she felt tingle in the air and it dipped the Frostbacks in green. Her mouth stood agape for a moment. 

“What… is th- _aaahhh_!!!”

A stinging pain pulsed through her left as the hole in the sky seemed to send out a pulse of energy. The pain was blinding white in her head, like fire burning through ever nerve in her hand, crawling up her arm like electric fire. She clutched the other hand against her wrist, pressed her thumb near the source of the pain. There was a wound on her hand. No blood, not even entirely sure it was a physical wound. And it was glowing as green as the hole in the sky. 

“What’s happening to me-aaarghhhh!”

Her knees gave as the force of the pain pulsed stronger. She could barely breathe, barely think straight. The woman had an arm around her shoulders, tried to calm her, but Ros barely felt anything other than pain.

“It is as I thought.”

A woman was coming closer. This one was elderly, white haired, small and hunched over, leaning on a knobby wooden staff. A mage. She very carefully took Ros’ hand, uncurled the fingers clenched to a tight fist and rand a fingertip along the edge of the cut. “Something has happened to you in that temple. It has changed you and the Lady both. The girl is marked!”

“I don’t-ahhh… I don’t understand! What happened to me?!” 

“Can anything be done about it?” a man asked, coming up to them behind the elderly woman. He was huge, muscular, his curls golden, with eyes like embers. He was wrapped in furs as well, but something about him seemed to set him apart from the rest. Like he was a leader, of sorts. 

Another man grabbed her wrist.

“I say we cut off that cursed hand, we’ll be doing her a favour!” he barked. Ros saw a blade flashing and she screamed, pulled herself free of the barbarian who had laid hands on her. She stumbled backwards, away from him, and the tall blond stepped between them. His had been the blade that had been drawn, and it was now laid across the other man’s chest.

“You touch her one more time without my permission, and it’ll be your hand that will be cut off.” 

The other man, gritted his teeth together. He stared past the blond, dark eyes nailed to Ros, forming an unpleasant knot in her stomach. She felt like she had been stripped naked in the snow, clutched her arms around herself only to find the woman from before offer her comfort. 

The dark haired man finally looked up at the blond man and nodded.

“Yes, my thane.” 

He turned and left. The blond waited until the aggressor was at a safe distance before he put the sword down and turned back to the three women. 

“Is there something we can do about the hand, _other_ than cutting it off?” he asked the elderly woman.

“We must find who did this to her and make them undo it.” 

“What if she did it to herself?”

Another woman joined them. This one had none of the warrior like mannerisms of the other woman. She had long, lush blonde curls that fell over her shoulders, her coats hugged feminine curves, her lips were cherry red and her cheeks blushed from the cold. But her features were hard, her eyes like blades, pointing at Ros. 

“Rosalie…” the man said in a soft but warning voice.

“I mean it. We don’t know anything about her. For all we know, she’s the one who hurt the Lady. For all we know, the lowlanders put her there for us to find. Beautiful damsel in distress, seems a bit convenient, doesn’t it?”

Ros squared her shoulder.

“My name is Róisín Trevelyan, of the noble house Trevelyan of Ostwick. I was at the conclave as a delegate for my Circle and whatever happened to me there, I assure you I did not do it to myself, and I did not volunteer for it.” 

“She’s of noble birth…” the other woman said.

“What’s this conclave you speak of?” the man asked with a frown.

“The Divine invited leaders of the Chantry, the Templars and the Mages to join in peaceful negotiations, to end the Mage-Templar war that has been raging across Ferelden, Orlais and the Free Marches. It was supposed to be a chance for peace. Instead…” her gaze returned to the sky “I don’t know what caused this. But they will blame me. Just like you blame me. I didn’t do this, I swear.”

“I believe her,” the first woman, the one who had brought her food, said. There was a long pause and then, finally, the man sheathed his sword.

“As do I.” 

Ros felt a weight fall off her shoulders, let go of a long breath of relief. “We can’t stay here for long. The Chantry is already looking for you.”

“Templars?” she asked. The man nodded. “They’ll surely kill me. I am just what they need. A mage, as only survivor of an explosion that killed the Divine. They will use me, put the blame on me, and execute me to appease the masses. They’ll use me to fuel sympathy for them, just as they used Anders of Kirkwall. Another mage to blame for blowing up a holy house. They will kill me, and use me as a justification to slaughter all mages they can find.”

“I won’t let that happen. Until we know what happened, no one will lay a hand on you, this I swear,” the man said, insistence in his voice. Ros felt her cheeks grow hot. Of all the things she had heard of the barbarians, he fulfilled none of these terrible stories. She lowered her eyes, bowed ever so slightly.

“Thank you…” she whispered, could barely hear her own voice.

“Any offense against the Marked One is an offense against me and my name, and will be punished accordingly!” he declared, for the entire tribe to hear. Then he turned back to Ros. “I am Cullen, thane of this hold. As long as you are here, you are under my protection. These are my sisters, Mia and Rosalie. They will look after you.”

Ros looked from the first woman she had spoken to, to the younger one who looked fiercely against all of this. Mia nodded with a smile, gently too her arm. Rosalie on the other hand crossed her arms over her chest.

“Will we now?” she asked sceptically. Cullen – the thane – turned towards her.

“Yes, you will.” He growled. She raised her arms defensively and then joined Mia at Ros’ other side. 

“Cullen!!”

The thane sighed when his name was yelled from outside the camp.

“There’s always something…” he mumbled to himself as he turned. Ros and the other two women stood by his side as a younger man came closer, followed by a group of armed men and women. The man leading them resembled the siblings, so Ros instantly assumed he was a brother of theirs. The same curly, blond hair, the same brown eyes, but his skin was freckled and had less warpaint than the thane. “What is it?”

“There is… something up ahead. It seems like a rift. We saw spirits wander freely near it. They must have escaped from the Lady’s realm through that rift,” the younger man explained, a little out of breath from running all the way back to their camp. 

“Could be related to the tear in the sky.” Mia contemplated.

“It’s blocking our course, we’ll have to take a detour back to the others,” the young man added. 

Cullen rubbed a hand over his chin. His gaze was on the path ahead, brows in a tight knit frown.

“We’ll take a detour. I will not put the men at risk before we know what we’re really dealing with,” he then said and marched past the young man, patting his shoulder once, to signal approval. The young man nodded and then went to coordinate the group packing up their camp. 

“Wait!!” Ros called out and rushed from the sisters to follow the thane. He stopped in his tracks and turned, slightly perplexed. “If this rift has something to do with what happened at the conclave, I want to see it.”

“It’s too dangerous, I won’t risk my men,” he protested.

“I don’t need protection, I can take care of myself. I’ll go there, I’ll check it out, I’ll come right back, I just need someone to show me where to go.”

Cullen stared, seemed to try to stare her down, stare her into obedience. But that would not work and he might as well learn that now. If there was one thing RóisínTrevelyan had in abundance, it was attitude. And eventually, his golden eyes glance away from her.

“Bran, you said it was at the top of our usual pass?”

“Yes, right over that crest and around the bend.”

“Augur. Join us. If there are spirits, your guidance is welcome. Mia, Bran, Rosalie, lead the rest around the mountain the other way, we will meet up with you on the other side.”

Cullen readied a horse, strapped a rolled up tent and large bag to it. 

“Is this wise?” Mia asked. 

“Probably not. But she has a point. If we can learn anything about this mark of hers and the wounded Lady… we might as well start there.”

He helped the elderly woman, the one he had addressed as Augur, onto the back of the horse. Mia sighed and nodded, then she took a warm coat from rack and wrapped it around Ros’ shoulders.

“Keep warm, don’t let him boss you around. Stay safe. We’ll see you on the other side.”

Ros nodded quietly, touched by the concern this complete stranger had for her, exposing all stories of the cruel barbarians as lies told by people with no insight.

She watched as the larger group of men and women left along an unrecognisable path. She did not know where they were going, but they seemed to, and that was what mattered. She turned towards the thane and the elderly mage on the horse. He nodded towards the way the younger man had come from earlier and she nodded, wrapped her arms around herself to shield herself against the cold, the coat wrapped tightly around her. She walked, slightly ahead of the thane who led the horse by its reigns, slowly uphill. 

* * *

As they proceeded in silence, Ros’ gaze wandered towards the valley behind them. Haven lay below, the small town she had stayed at the previous nights before the conclave met. And there, just over the nearest mountain, she saw black thorns reach up. It took her a good minute to realise she was staring at the remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

“ _Maker’s breath_ …” she whispered, a shaking hand over her lips. “How did I…”

“We don’t know. You had not a scratch on you when we found you. Except that mark,” the thane explained, pointing at her left hand. She glanced down at the irregular cut, still throbbing with green light, though the pain had dulled a little.

“Each time the breach in the sky expands, your mark grows, too. I fear if we do not find a way to stop it…” the mage said. Rose closed her hand and turned away from the temple. She did not need to hear the end of this. She knew. If they did not find a way to stop this hole in the sky and that mark on her hand from growing… she would die. It would devour her. She looked up at the mage.

“What is it to you?” she asked.

“To us?”

“Your people were not harmed by this explosion, were they? You are unaffected. Why protect me? Why try to stop the growth? Why get involved at all?”

“You know very little of our people, do you, lowlander?” the old mage asked with an understanding smile. Ros reluctantly shook her head.

“To us, the sky and the earth are sacred. The Lady of the Sky watches over us, she takes our dead and she guides our lives. And the Mountain Father, Korth, he gives us life, he provides us with game for the hunt and with terrain to live on and protects us from our enemies. This hole in the sky… and the destructing at the temple… it has wounded the Lady and the Father. If we cannot appease them, if we cannot heal the wounds, they will spread and fester and will doom all the lands. This hole in the sky, this explosion, it harmed not only your Chantry. It will bring doom upon everyone. Including us. So we might as well be the ones to heal it.”

Ros listened attentively as the elderly mage spoke. Truly, there was so little about the barbarian’s beliefs that survived translation into their Chantry education. A shame, considering their prophetess had been one such ‘barbarian’ herself. They should know more about them. Once upon a time, they had been them. 

“But… why me?”

Ros looked up at the smiling old mage. 

“That, lowlander, is for you to find out.”

They turned around a bend when suddenly, the thane stopped in his tracks.

“There it is…” he said. Ros followed his gaze. Just down the slope ahead of them, a group of trees had been uprooted and between them, just a little above the ground, hovered a tear in the fabric of reality itself. Green bled through it, making the light eerie and ill. Ros noticed movement, like drifts of snow but as she focused, she saw shapes moving about the area. Whisps. She remembered seeing creatures like that in…

Her eyes widened.

“It’s… it’s the veil. These are tears in… the veil…” she whispered.

“The veil?” the thane asked.

“It is of your people’s teachings” Augur noted. Ros nodded.

“The Chantry teaches that the veil is what separates the waking world from the Fade, the dream realm and home of spirits and demons. Sometimes the veil can be thin and it’s possible to communicate with the spirit world. But I have never… seen it tear open like this. If that’s what the hole in the sky is… a massive tear in the veil… the consequences could be… disastrous.” 

“That Fade realm of yours, it sounds like the realm of the Lady of the Sky. Perhaps our teachings are not so different from yours after all.” The old mage made the horse move down towards the tear in the veil, and Ros gasped alarmed.

“Wait! It could be dangerous! There might be demons!”

“There is no such thing as demons, lowlander. The spirits are always willing to talk, if we are willing to listen. Fear them not,” the old woman called back at her with a smile. Ros stood dumb folded. Did these barbarian mages not fear demons, not fear possession? Was that why they had no Circles, no Templars?   
She flinched a little when she felt a hand brush her elbow, barely a touch. She looked up to meet the thane’s gaze. He nodded towards the tear in the veil.

“Let’s go.”

He led her with him, reluctant as she was. She could fill the pull, with every step they came closer. She felt the magic in the air, electric and alive, a push and pull, like the tide. She always felt it, it was an inherent part of growing up as a mage. But she had never felt it this strong, this vivid. She could almost see it, the green light around the tear, the ebb and flow of magic. She remembered…

 _Waking to a sting in her hand. Lying on cold, hard ground, with the faint sound of water, little ripples splashing against stone. She pushed herself up on all fours. The sky was green, in turmoil, boiling, raging. And everywhere. There was sky above, below, all around. She was sat on an island in eternity, black rock, and there in the distance a light, breaking on the skyline of a city. The Black City. The Fade. She was in the Fade._ She remembered…

_Running. For her life. Hundreds of feet behind her, scratching on the stone, whispering, chirping at her, she barely dared turn around. Above her, a light, a figure. A woman. A hand stretched out towards her.  
_

_“Hurry!”  
_

_She stumbled, fell, slipped, nearly tumbled back towards her pursuers. But the woman reached out to her, the woman caught her hand, where the green light had burned its way into her flesh._

The next thing she remembered? Waking up in the tent of a barbarian tribe. What had happened to her? In the Fade? In a dream? But it felt so… real. 

“Lowlander?” 

The voice of the thane snapped her out of her memories, out of that sphere where she tried to put together the pieces she had lost. She blinked, profoundly confused, at the barbarian leader before her. 

“Sorry, I was… I was trying to remember what happened…”

He had a hand extended towards her. Ros looked down perplexed and only then noticed that she had stopped walking on the edge of a small but steep step formed in the rocks and he was probably offering to help her climb down. She gathered her robes – the rim of the skirts dirty and partly torn and wet from melting snow and ice – and took the offered hand to support herself on the small leap down towards him. “She… is a mage?”

“The augur is the wisest of our shamans. Yes, you would call her a mage.”

“Oh augur is a _title_! I thought that was her name!” 

He chuckled a little and shook his head as he led her down the uneven path and closer towards the rift. It made her skin prickled, and then she thought it had to be the proximity to the tear in the veil, not the way his rough hands felt against hers. 

The augur had climbed off the horse now and had raised her staff and a beaded necklace. As they came closer, Ros noticed that each bead was in fact a tiny vessel with a red liquid in it. Blood. Blood magic. Her stomach curled painfully. She had heard rumours of barbarian blood rituals, but somehow she had hoped that did not mean blood magic. 

“Spirits of the mountain and the forest, spirits of the ice and snow, of the mountain ram. Hear me. We have come seeking answers for the hole in the sky! Our Lady has been wounded, and we wish to mend what has been broken.”

Ros watched nervously as the whisps attention shifted, from wandering aimlessly seemingly confused, to staring at the elderly woman. It made her skin crawl. 

“No… something isn’t right…” Ros whispered.

“Don’t interrupt her. This is our way. She-”

She pushed off the hand of the thane as he tried to hold her back. 

“No! Something is wrong! I can feel-”

Before she could finish, each and every single one of the whisps gathering around them began shrieking. A high pitch, bloodcurdling noise. And from the tear in the veil, a creature appeared. Naked and disproportionate, skinny and waxen, with long claws and teeth. It shrieked at them and leapt towards the elderly mage. The augur stumbled backwards with a shocked gasp, raising her amulet of blood above her. But Ros did not take any chances. She broke away from the thane and ran through the snow, nearly fell once and then dropped to her knees next to the elderly woman. Blue magic burst from her, a simple but effective barrier spell. The demon attacking them slammed into the energy field, shrieked annoyed as it stumbled backwards and then prepared for another attack. But this time, a metal shield slammed into it, pushing it backwards. 

“Take the augur to safety! _Go_!!” the thane ordered as he fought the demon, There was fierce screaming, demon blood oozing where his blade cut. But he was pushed back, flew around, lost his sword. He blinked disoriented from the blow, then crawled for his blade and managed to roll over just in time to break the demons attack. Ros looked back again and again as she led the elderly mage away from the battle. Every time, the thane’s situation seemed more perilous than a moment before. 

“They are scared. They are scared and confused. They do not wish to be here but they cannot go back on their own, the rift prevents it.”

Arrows began soaring through the air, nearly hitting Ros and the old mage as they fled. She looked up, saw barbarian hunters on the mountainside. Those were the men and women Mia had taken along the other path. They must have changed their mind.

She heard the thane grunt, and when she turned, she saw him stand over the body of the demon he had slain, black blood splattered across his face and coat. The body of the creature disintegrated underneath him, green shattered pieces, floating back into the rift. And then, the augur grabbed her by the collar, pulled her so close that she could feel the old woman’s breath on her face. “Close it! You must close it! You alone have the power, you know you do!”

“I-I don’t know… I…”

“ _Do it!!_ ”

The shaman pushed her away forcefully, surprisingly strong for a body so small and old and fragile. Ros stumbled through the snow, felt the pull of the mark on her hand as she came closer to the thane and to the rift. The whisps were closing in on them, she heard their whispers, their pale, ghostly hands reaching for her. She stared at the mark burning on her hand, the green glow brighter now than ever before. Her heart was racing, breath heaving, her head spinning. 

She just did it. She wasn’t even entirely sure what she was doing. She raised her hand overhead, screaming as green lighting linked her with the rift. Her skin felt on fire, electricity letting her hairs stand up on end. The rift was roaring, the whisps around them shrieking, mixing with her own scream. She felt pulled off her feet, stumbling towards the rift. She fell to her knees as the tear in the veil seemed to drain her, all of her. And then it exploded. 

A burst of green light and energy rolled over them, tossing her backwards like she was a ragdoll, whirling up the snow around them. Ros landed on her back in the snow, blinking at the blue sky. Silence fell, gone where the whispers of the spirits, gone was the roaring of the rift, the pull of magic. She sat up slowly, moaning in pain. The tear in the veil was gone. The air was shimmering a moment longer, then it was as if it had never been there. 

Ros looked down at her hand. The intense glowing had stopped, so had the pain, the throbbing energy. And it seemed smaller now than it had been a minute ago. Whatever she had done, it had helped. 

She pushed herself to her feet and then looked to the thane, who was still standing. And staring at her like no one had ever looked at her before. 

“You… command the sky…” he whispered. He dropped his sword and went to his knees, then his hands and bowed his forehead to the snow before her feet. 

“Lady of the Sky.”

“Our Lady has spoken loud and clear,” the augur said.

“Wait, what?” 

Ros turned towards the elderly mage. Behind her came the hunters, Mia and the others among them. One after the other, they dropped their weapons, then fell to their knees as the thane had done, whispering about their Lady, about her return. Ros laughed nervously. “N-no, I’m not… this isn’t… I don’t even know what it is. But I… I’m not your Lady.”

“But you have been touched by her. We came here looking for a means to heal what was done to the Lady of the Sky. And she has given us the answer. You have given us the answer. You are the one who can heal the sky.”

As the elderly mage spoke, Ros watched the tribe bow to her and had an overwhelming sense of being the wrong person at the wrong time in the wrong place. Suddenly, she understood so very well how the Champion of Kirkwall had to feel.


	3. Among Strangers

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Roaslie insisted.

“You saw it. You saw it with your own two pretty brown eyes, yet you deny her?” Mia asked, fighting down the urge to grab their younger sister by the shoulders and shake her. Cullen could see it in the way her hands trembled, in the way her eyes burned.

“I don’t know what I saw. I saw her close the rift, but that does not mean she was not the one who caused all this in the first place.”

“Rosalie, always with the doubt!” Mia barked, throwing her hands in the air in defeat.

“Well, I rather doubt and question then blindly worship some orlesian wallflower who claims to be touched by the Gods!”

“The hole in the sky, and the plague of the land at the temple, both were caused by great, great magic. More magic than any one mage can possess. This girl could not have done this,” the augur commented.

“Alone!” Rosalie added, her voice strong, a finger raised in alarm. “She could not have done it _alone_. Perhaps she had accomplices, perhaps she was an accomplice, perhaps something went wrong and she survived while none of the others did. We don’t know that. And she oh so conveniently lost her memory. I am not saying we should outright chase her away or kill her, but I think we shouldn’t just trust her on her word.”

“Either way, she will have a personal interest in undoing what happened. For if it is not undone, she will surely die. The mark will kill her. Closing that rift may have slowed it down but unless she finds a way to seal the hole in the sky, it will kill her just as well.”

“I don’t know, Rosalie. Closing that rift… it was pretty spectacular…” Branson commented, the first thing he had said since they had gathered here. Their youngest sister scoffed.

“A pretty face and blue eyes is all it takes to make you weak, Bran. That is no secret.”

“You weren’t there.”

The three siblings and the shaman turned to face Cullen. It was also the first he had spoken since they had met here to discuss what to do with the girl. Up until now, all he had done was sit beside them, elbows on his knees, hands folded over his lips, staring into the fire and at the tent across from them. The tent where the girl with the mark was resting. Now he leaned back. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see it. You didn’t see _her_.”

“What does that even mean, brother?” Rosalie asked with a dramatic eye-roll. The augur rose.

“It means you didn’t see what she did. You didn’t see her throw herself in harm’s way to protect me. You didn’t see her making sure I made it out of that mess alive. You didn’t see the way she braved a power with no logical, reasonable way of surviving it. If you had seen her… you’d know. You would know she did not cause this, that she is not the kind of woman who would want to see everyone in that temple killed,” the elder mage said. And Cullen nodded in agreement. Rosalie scoffed, pouted. The augur walked over to the youngest and when she placed her old wrinkly hands on the girls rosy cheeks, the difference in their age was all the more expressed. The augur, who had seen so many winters she had surely lost count. And Rosalie, who had barely seen the twenty. “You will understand one day, girl. We all have our parts to play.”

There was a moment the two women just looked at each other and finally, Rosalie nodded.

“Fine... I’ll try.”

The augur smiled and kissed the girls forehead.

“That’s my girl,” she said, then turned to Cullen and nodded. He nodded and got to his feet.

“She stays with us. The Lady has brought her to us for a reason, she means to bless us, and we will honour that blessing. We will take the girl to the hold with us, where we can protect her, and then we will figure out how to go about the hole in the sky.”

His siblings and the elder shaman nodded.

“As you command, my thane,” the augur said.

Cullen left them behind by the fire. His steps took him around the pit and towards the tent where the girl rested. He stopped at the entrance, hesitant to enter.

They had not spoken a word since leaving behind the site of the rift, since they had set up that camp for the night. He knew not how she was coping with all that had happened. And he was not even entirely sure how _he_ was coping. With what he had seen, with what he had witnessed in the mountains today. His mind wandered back to that moment. When she had raised her hand to the sky, green light wrapped around her, drawing a bright, green ring in her eyes. She was like a spirit herself, a creature of green fire and magic and... _beauty_. May the Lady have mercy on him, she was _beautiful_. Silly a thought to have. What was she to him? What were they to each other but strangers? That delicate lowland blossom, with her fine clothes and fine hair and soft, soft skin and...

His mind wandered.

He shook off the thoughts and finally parted the entrance to the tent and stepped through.

She was not asleep, but wide awake, pacing, arms wrapped around herself and when he entered she stopped and turned towards him.

She had washed, and changed out of the dirty robes she had worn into one of Mia’s – a pair of loose fitting, warm trousers, boots, a tunic normally worn only under winter armour. Clothing much more suitable for the weather up in these mountains. Her short, dark hair fell messy, some strands in her eyes, those bright, moonlight eyes. Her pink lips parted to draw in a breath before she spoke out.

“What was decided?” she asked, her voice hesitant.

“You will stay with us.”

“As prisoner?”

He glanced over to her, a brow raised sceptically.

“Did they look at you like they saw you as a prisoner?” he asked with a laugh. Her cheeks turned pink and she turned away. For a moment, they were in silence and Cullen turned away from her. He assumed that would be the extent of their conversation for tonight. He unfolded his bedroll nearest to the entrance, so that if anyone tried anything funny, tried to sneak his way into this tent and to the Marked One, they would have to get past him first. And everyone knew the thane did not sleep. He slipped out of his harness, dropped the stiff leathers behind his bedroll, freed himself of the black furs and trousers that kept at bay the cold.

“I am... not a saviour. Or marked by Gods...”

He looked up when he heard her voice, small, and clearly speaking away from him. She had her back still turned but he saw that she was staring at the mark on her hand.

“If the Lady did not give you the mark, then who did?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what happened at the conclave, what happened to me. I wish... I wish there was an explanation, wish I knew what caused this. But it _wasn’t_ Gods, that much I do know.”

“Why not?”

Now she looked back over her shoulder. For a moment, they had both fallen into silence. Her gaze lingered on him. All of him. On his form, on his many scars. Her blue eyes were searching his body, and he let her. His body was no shame to him, but he did wonder if the sheltered noble Circle mage had ever seen a naked man in her life and although he was not completely naked, the simple hide loincloth covering his cock left little to the imagination. If she had not been with a man before, she had herself well controlled, for he saw no value judgment in her gaze. More did she look like she tried to read a book in a foreign tongue. He waited for her eyes to return to his, before he continued. “Why can you not believe in a blessing by the Gods? Was your... _Andraste_ so different? A normal girl, whose prayers were heard by your Maker. Why is it so absurd that you might have been blessed by the Lady?”

“Why would your Lady chose me? Why not one of your own?”

“Why would your Maker choose Andraste? Perhaps our Lady took back from him what he once took from her.”

Cullen came closer, in slow steps, and she never once pulled her eyes from his. There was something in her eyes, something that drew him in. It had been there earlier, when she had demanded to be taken to the rift rather than avoid the danger. The girl may look delicate and fragile, but there was a strength in her that rivalled that of any warrior and he was simply fascinated by it.

He stopped before her and he took her hands. His gaze fell down. Her hands in his were like fine silk, and light as feathers. His rough fingertips followed the scarred mark in her palm, the faint green shimmer always in it. He noticed a tremble, faint, in her hands, and he looked up.

Their gazes met, and this time, the pale steel oh her eyes cut through him like a blade. His palm was pressed against hers, he felt the humming, electrifying energy of the mark and the warmth of her skin. He moved closer still. He moved to take a step with his knee between hers and he felt her draw in a breath when he leaned down. Her breath was close, a trembling warmth over his lips and he longed to claim them. These pink, soft lips.

Yet she pulled away. Just an inch, and it made him straighten up and lower her hands, breaking contact. His throat was burning with an unquenched thirst for her lips. A thirst he could not, did not want to admit.

“Am-” she began, then cleared her throat and he saw her flustered, cheeks glowing. “Am I to stay here tonight?”

“I would not have you anywhere else.”

“I thought I was no prisoner,” she replied, her voice sharp as a knife. He turned back towards her, met the challenge in her gaze.

“You are not my prisoner. But as long as you are here, you belong by my side. I told you no one is getting near you without my explicit permission.”

“You have no right to decide who comes near me and who doesn’t, _barbarian_.”

She spat the word out like poison.

“Is that meant to insult me, _princess_?” he scoffed and shook his head. Her cheeks flushed.

“I just...”

“I am keeping you here to protect you, lowlander. You don’t have to be afraid. And I will never take advantage of you.”

“Right...” she whispered as she went to unfold the bedroll Mia had put here for her. He glanced back at her when he sat down on his own camp.

“Unless, that is, you want me to?”

“What?! No! That would be- That would be entirely inappropriate!”

He laughed at the sight of her face in the faint firelight, bright red, flustered, and she roared upset before she wrapped herself in her furs and rolled over, her back turned to him. He lay down himself, with a view of the tent entrance. The fire could be seen, shimmering through the fabric. He heard her rustle about and when he glanced over next, she was completely covered under the warm furs of her bedroll. She had, however, turned around, and met his gaze again. “What if there are more?”

“More?”

“Of the rifts. People could be in danger. People could be forced to flee their homes. I feel... bad, abandoning them.”

He sighed and sat up again.

“You wish to travel to the lowlands and see if there are more of these rifts?” he asked sceptically.

“Could we do that? Would that be possible? Perhaps it... if the Chantry saw that I was undoing the damage the explosion caused, maybe they will believe that I am innocent and I can return home...”

“If that is what you wish...”

It was a promise he could not make. She was too important. For his people, his hold, his family. A sign from the Lady herself, like this girl, was too rare and too precious to let her slip away. He could not tell her that, he could not risk her feeling trapped or unsafe. But he decided then and there that should push come to shove, he would not let her go. She was _his_ now. She belonged here, whether she liked it or not. “I’ll pick some of my hunters to join you and protect you.”

“Thank you...”

He nodded, then rolled over on his bedroll. Because surely, if he had to watch her sleeping form all night, he would go insane.

* * *

She still felt it.

As she lay on that bedroll in the tent – a tent that suddenly seemed so very small and so very hot – she still felt it. The way he had held her hands in his. The way his skin felt, rough and calloused from living his life with the sword in his hands. She still felt the heat coming from his skin when they stood so close, when she felt his knee brush between hers. She still felt his breath, mingled with hers, caressing over her lips in a sweet promise.

None of this was right. None of this should be happening. She should quite certainly be dead in that temple. Instead, she was here, with these barbarians, with _this_ barbarian. _Maker’s breath_!

She watched his form against the light from the fire outside, his large shoulders casting a massive shadow. His body had looked enormous, almost monstrous earlier, against that same light, once his armour had come off. She remembered the shadows the firelight cast on his skin, the scars that demanded attention once he had been no longer covered. Ros had seen naked men before. The Circle had little room for privacy, with shared bathrooms and hardly any entertainment other than books and fooling around in dark corners in the library. But _Maker_... everything about him was... larger than life. The span of his shoulders, the muscular arms and strong thighs, and she could not even thing about what may be under that flimsy loincloth he wore without blushing furiously. The thought about his naked body, it drove an inappropriate burning into her at the mere memory.

She pulled her mind from the naked barbarian lying not three feet away from her. She pulled up her hand, the cut faintly glowing green in the dark tent. The pain had stopped after she had sealed the rift in the tundra. If it felt like such a relief every time she closed a tear in the Fade... if there were more like it... maybe that would help stop the mark from growing. Maybe it would buy her time from being devoured by it. Maybe it would buy her enough time to find out what had happened, maybe she would be able to undo it, maybe she would survive this yet. But would she ever be able to return home? Would the Avvar _let_ her leave? Would she ever be welcome back in her home, after the disasters at the conclave? Even if her innocence in the event was proven, would the Chantry even listen or care? More likely they would kill her anyways, would use her as their scapegoat, sacrifice one to justify their needless war. What more was she to them?

But what else could she do? Where else would she go? Stay here? With these barbarians? Believing in their strange Gods, dabbling with spirits and blood magic? Was this so much better a life? Was it so much worse?

She rolled over, away from the fire shimmering through the tent, and closed her eyes, squeezed them shut, tried to find sleep somehow. Tried to doze off into a dream, where none of this would have happened.

_She was running. She heard screaming, saw mages, dragged away by their robes, by their hair. By Templars._

_This was the Circle! She was back in Ostwick, back home, back on that hellish night 406 days ago. Or was it 408 now? She ran down the hallway, her robes flying around her legs, her soft shoes making barely a sound on the marble floor. Out of breath. She turned a corner, her then still long hair falling in her face as she came to a sudden halt. A Templar stepped out of a room, right in front of her. Blood soaked his armour, dripped of his blade. Mages blood. She struggled to breath. The stench of blood filling her nose._

_She stumbled backwards as he came closer, panic welling up inside her, heart racing. She turned and ran the other way. She did not know where, did not know where she would ever be safe from them. She threw herself against a heavy door, the harrowing chamber lay behind it, she knew, because she had been there once, many years ago. The door gave, she fell forward into the dark chamber._

_Only it was not the harrowing chamber at all. This room was unfamiliar to her. High stone pillars, fires forming a path up a set of stairs, an enormous statue towering before her. Andraste, a bowl of flames in her hands. And at the altar before her were dark shadows, moving fluid, like they were not truly there._

_“Help me!!”_

_A woman, suspended in the air, begged, old eyes meeting Ros’. Life was draining from her, she could see it._

_“We have an intruder. Kill the girl.”_

_A thundering voice, an ancient rumble, the stuff of nightmares. And all shadows turned to her. They collided in a wave, Ros screamed as they roared towards her, washed over her. She was torn down, she screamed and kicked as the darkness overwhelmed her, as she was pulled into nothingness, into-_

She startled awake with a gasp, sat up and clutched her aching hand against her. The pain had resurfaced in the cut, crawling through her muscles and over her skin. She whimpered quietly, hand curled to a tight fist, as if she were trying to squeeze the pain out of it. But it wasn’t helping.

Ros looked up. It was grey morning light outside and she was alone in the tent. The thane had left. She heard voices beyond the tent, it sounded like they were packing up their camp. She kicked the furs aside as she stood up, sorted through the clothes she had borrowed and put the coat made from bear hide around her, before she stepped out into the cold.

The sun was not visible yet behind the mountains, but the sky was grey, with a shimmer of pink, and the air crisp and fresh. A group of Avvar were filling yesterday’s fire pit with dirt and snow, while others rolled up the tents and packed their camp on the backs of their horses. She spotted Mia, the huntress, and was relieved to find the woman wave her over with a bright smile.

“Morning. Got some breakfast for you.”

The woman handed her bread, goats milk and some dry, dark berries. “Cullen said we’ll be going into the Hinterlands. See if there are more of the rifts.”

“Good. I worry people might have been harmed,” Rod said quietly. She looked around. “Where… is he?”

“There’s a small stream a little ways downhill. He went to wash himself.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Ros felt a blush sneak into her cheeks at the thought of the thane standing to his thighs in clear water, droplets running down over his muscular body. Maker, preserve her, this would be a long journey.

Mia chuckled a little next to her, no doubt she had noticed the blush.

“I am sure he wouldn’t mind if you came to… appreciate the sight.”

“I’ve appreciated enough of the sight already, thank you very much.”

“Oh, I see how it is then,” Mia said with a suggestive wink. Ros gasped.

"No! Not... not like that, oh Maker preserve me, that came out so wrong!"

“Well, he should be back soon, and we’ll head out of the mountains once he’s back. So if you wish to prepare for the journey, now is the time.”

“Thank you.”

Ros was not entirely sure if a bow was the appropriate response, but she did slightly curtsy nonetheless. Mia nodded back and then returned to her preparations – packing up her tent and preparing her quiver and bow. Ros was relieved to see that the huntress would apparently join them in the Hinterlands.

After a while – the camp had been completely packed up by then and some of the Avvar were clearly starting to get agitated – a figure approached from the snowy woods, stalking uphill towards them. Cullen’s boots left heavy trails in the snow and his impressive appearance was topped off with wearing a large, heavy black fur. Like a lion’s mane, it made his shoulders look even bigger than they already were. And indeed it was a large lion’s head that lay across his chest. As he came closer, his golden eyes eventually came to rest on her, then on Mia.

“Are you ready?” he asked her.

“We are. We will scout the area, if we find more rifts she will close them and we will met you and the others in a week at Hafgaards pass,” she replied with a nod. As she spoke, Ros watched Branson – the fourth one of the siblings, climb onto his horse. Then her gaze returned to Cullen.

“You won’t go with us?” she asked. He looked down at her.

“I can’t well leave the tribe. I am their thane, my duty is first to them. But you will be in good hands, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried. Just-”

Just what? _Disappointed_? That he would not personally look after her all the time? She shook her head. Perish the thought! She turned to Mia. “Then you lead the way.”

The huntress nodded and climbed on her own horse. Ros approached one of the massive creatures. She was a Trevelyan, horses were their trademark. But these beasts were enormous, and she very tiny by comparison. It would prove a challenge to climb onto it’s back with her dignity intact.

Before even attempting it, she went to the horse’s nose, stroked it gently and whispered to the dark creature. Big, dark eyes watched her attentively. Barbarian horde or not, the gentleness was all the same for horses, no matter where they were from. She smiled and nodded. They would get along. She walked to its side, hoping to find a stirrup to facilitate the effort. But there was none. There was not even a saddle. She glanced past her horse towards Mia and Branson – neither of their horses had saddles, just makeshift reigns. _Great_. With a groan, she stretched one arm over the back of the horse, the other held its mane, careful not to pull on it. With three hops, she tried to gain enough purchase to hoist herself up onto the back. But to little avail. Yet on her second attempt, she felt a pair of hands on her waist, and her weight lifted up easily. She could flip her leg across the horseback and sit in place, turned towards the owner of the arms that had lifted her up her. The thane nodded wordlessly, one hand still resting on her thigh. It lingered there, for a moment longer, she felt the warm weight of it through the warm coat and she wondered how these hands would feel with no furs and hide to separate their skin.

She shook off the thought, sat up straight on her horse, using her thighs and heels to hold on properly and then nodded towards Mia. The huntress nodded back and set her horse in motion. Cullen gave a gentle clap on the behind of Ros’ horse, setting it in motion to follow Mia. After her came Bran. Glancing over her shoulder Ros saw a quick exchange between the brothers, both of them looking over at her at the same time and it made her turn away abruptly, and blushing again. She had understood not a word they had said in their barbarian language, but she knew it had to have been about her.

The next time she dared to look back, she could no longer see the campsite.


	4. The Threat Remains

They followed a stream for most of the way. Turned into a wide river as snow melt joined the water on their way down, it eventually began turning the area around them greener and soon, they appeared below.

The Hinterlands of Ferelden.

Ros had come through them on their travel to the conclave, together with the other mages who had survived the massacre at Ostwick’s Circle. She had only little memory of the place, because most of their journey they had been too vigilant about Templars to enjoy the scenery. But seen from here, from the last few plateaus of the Frostbacks, the Hinterlands looked breath-taking.

The fifth Blight had left its scars on the landscape here, with dark rifts in the earth leading down into the darkspawn infested Deep Roads, with strips of land still left infertile. But there were green pastures, farmlands, clear streams from the mountains leading down towards Lake Calenhad, the magnificent, enormous lake that lay beyond here. They could make out two small settlements in their direct proximity – one was a collection of farmsteads, the other was a settlement of small buildings, smoke rising from small chimneys.

Their small party made their way down towards the last edges of the mountains and followed the stream further down towards the farmsteads. They turned around a bend of the river, then up the eastern shore and over a hill and high grass. Here, they stopped to take off some of their warmer coats. Ros slipped out of the warm furs, whereas Mia, Branson and Endrel, one of the other hunters they had brought with them, stripped down almost completely. Used to the freezing cold up in those mountains, Ros figured this had to be boiling hot for them. After a moment, they were left in barely more than loincloths and boots. Even Mia had freed her torso and now her golden curls barely covered the swell of her breasts. They went to apply their characteristic red warpaint, mixed with a dark grey mud or clay that dried to their skin now, covering them completely to almost invoke the illusion of being dressed. They painted their faces too, handprints across them, or the likeness of claw marks down their cheeks. It seemed to matter little that they got clay and paint in their hair as well. Ros watched them curiously, admittedly fascinated, nearly enraptured by their display.

When they were finally done, the four of them continued down the small slope. They stayed off the paved road, had no intention of exposing their presence to any wandering patrols. Mia scouted always ahead, most of the times Ros barely saw more of her than a flash of golden curls swiftly disappearing behind a tree or a rock.

All the while, Endrel never once took his eyes off Ros. She could feel his incessant staring, and everytime she turned to look at him, he would quickly look away, brows knitted in a bushy, ginger frown. It had gone like that for hours and now, finally, she confronted him.

“What?!” she snapped. The hunter jumped on the back of his horse.

“What?!” he asked back.

“You keep staring at me. You’ve been staring at me for six hours now. I think after six hours, I have the right to ask what the problem is!” Ros snapped. She had barely finished her lecture when Branson’s horse and golden head popped up between her and the older hunter. He said something, sounded rough and angry in the foreign tongue of the barbarians, and Ros saw the older hunter go bright red in the face. He stammered something and shook his head violently, then glanced past the warrior.

“I apologise, lowlander. M-Marked One! I meant no disrespect. Never!”

Branson nodded grimly, then made Ros continue riding while the other hunter rode behind them, quiet and clearly awkward.

“What was that all about?” she asked towards the thane’s younger brother.

“I told him that showing you disrespect meant disrespecting the thane and we would see him punished once we return to the hold.”

“I don’t want him punished, I just wanted to know why he’s staring at me.”

Branson turned towards her with a stern face.

“He stares because he has never seen anyone blessed by Our Lady.”

“You can’t punish him for that!!” Ros protested.

“He will be punished for disrespecting your privacy. He should not have stared, he had no right to, Cullen would have disapproved if he were here now.”

“Cullen can’t stop people from staring at me because they think I am holy.”

“Oh but he can. He’s the thane, the Lady sent you to him. You are, um…” the younger man stumbled over his words then, ran a hand through his messy blond curls.

“I am what?!”

“Well… by Avvar understanding you belong to the one who brought you to this hold. Cullen carried you to his tent in his arm. So by our laws, you are his property, you were a gift by the Gods to him, and no one has any business staring at you.”

“I am not his property!” Ros protested. Maker! She had been considered property all her life. Property of her father to be married off once she was of age, then property of the Circle once her gift of magic had been discovered. She would _not_ be the property of some barbarian warlord now!

“Not… not in that sense. Try to understand. Being his property means he is responsible for your safety. It means if you are harmed or insulted, he is harmed or insulted. Being his property allows him to protect you with any means, and he would be in the right, because anyone who tried to hurt you would be effectively trying to steal from him, to hurt him, and he would have the right to defend himself against that. It is our law, it does not mean he sees you as his property or expects you to do as he demands, it just means he has the law on his side to protect you. And trust me, in time, you will need that protection.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“In time, word will spread. Other tribes will demand proof of your blessing, and other thanes will seek to steal you from him. Were you not his, he’d have no right to stop them. But when the law is on his side now, and as the injured party, he would have the right to wage war against a tribe that tried to steal you from him.”

“This is barbaric!” Ros declared, throwing her hands over her head. Branson shrugged.

“Call it what you will. But we are all property of someone. From the highest to the lowest, every one owes something to someone else, everyone is, in the end, someone else’s property. For you, there could have been a worse fate. My brother is a good man, better than most. In time, you will see that.”

“I don’t doubt that he’s a good man. I just disapprove of the idea that anyone should be anyone else’s property! That’s slavery! That’s what the Tevinter do, don’t the Avvar hate the Tevinter?”

“What we have is not slavery. You will understand. In time. We will-”

He did not finish his sentence, because in that moment, Mia appeared on the path ahead of them.

“There’s a rift near the farmstead. It is as you feared,” she said with a nod towards Ros.

“Show me to it!” she demanded. Mia nodded, swung herself back onto her horse and rode ahead. Ros nudged her heels into her horse’ side and it swiftly followed the huntress. The galloped across the road and over another hill. Looking down from here, Ros could see the farmsteads and just outside of them she spotted the green tear in the veil. Just as the one they had seen in the mountains. The sight alone made their horses nervous and she could not blame them for it. So instead, they left the horses behind on the hill and continued on foot. Mia stalked ahead, Ros followed. The closer they moved towards the rift, the stronger the pain in her hand grew, almost numbing by the time they reached the final slope.

As they neared the rift, they heard the sounds of fighting. Swords and shields, people shouting at each other, and as they reached the rift, they found men and women fighting a hopeless battle against the creatures that had escaped the Fade through that tear in the veil.

The woman leading the soldiers was bashing down on a demon relentlessly with her shield, and from an elevated position just ahead, a dwarf with a crossbow was raining down bolts onto the battlefield. It forced the Avvar to stay in the relative protection of the trees, form where they could observe the soldiers. There was one mage among them, too. A bald elf, his clothes suggested he was an apostate, for there was no sign of the Circle insignia on his rather makeshift robes, but judging from his lack of facial tattoos, he was also no dalish.

Despite their best efforts, the group was hopelessly outnumbered, and as more of their soldiers fell, their odds just seemed to shrink away.

“We have to help them,” Ros insisted. Mia turned towards her two companions.

“Cover the Marked One so she can get close enough to the rift to close it!” she ordered. They nodded and each pulled their weapon. Mia herself pulled a sword she carried for melee combat, Endrel pulled an axe. Branson meanwhile had his sword drawn and his shield raised to cover Ros from the bolts above them. He had her pressed against his side and then they joined the other two who had stormed into the battle with wild battle cries. For a moment, the fighting soldiers seemed startled by the barbarian group that attacked, fearing they would have to fight on another front. But as the Avvar started beating down on the demons, the soldiers relaxed and they soon fought side by side.

Branson led her closer to the rift, as close as he could before a demon rammed them out of the way. They toppled over, landed on the soft grass, the impact of the heavy barbarian falling on top of her knocked the wind from her lungs. Branson was back on his feet quickly and with blade and shield raised and his face in a grimace of rage, he stormed back into the fight.

Ros had her part to do, she knew that. She rolled over onto all fours and inspected her best possible route to the rift. It would be so much easier if she had a staff to defend herself with and to cast spells at a longer range, but she would have to make do with what she had at her disposal.

There was a group of demons just up ahead, between her and the rift. She focused her magic, channelled it through her body and then unleashed it in a fiery breath onto the creatures. The flames burnt through the group of demons, forced them to jump apart and Ros used the momentary distraction to leap to her feet and run towards the green tear in the veil. She came to a halt just underneath the tear and raised her hand as she had done before.

Instantly, the powerful magic began pulling at her again. The rift reacted as expected, roaring and whirling, tearing at her arm. She was pulled up, tiptoes barely even touching the ground anymore, and she heard her own scream – not so much one of pain as one of determination and defiance. And then, the tear collapsed. It fell in on itself, and moments later imploded, blowing the soldiers and the barbarians backwards in the process. It left them all dizzy and confused. Ros needed a moment to clear her head again and by the time she was ready to sit up, a blade was at her throat.

The woman leading the warriors held that very sword in hands and used the other hand to pull off her helmet. Underneath was the harsh, worn face of a warrior, scars on her cheeks and nose. Her sharply cut jaw and nose, giving her an rather masculine feature, contrasted sharply with her full red lips, her almond eyes were framed with dark kohl and her black hair was short, with a fine braid wrapped around her head once.

“Who are you, and how did you do that?!” she asked sternly in a Nevarran accent.

“I am Róisín Trevelyan of Ostwick, and once I know how I did it, you’ll be among the first to know, I promise.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed in a frown, but her sword did not move.

“Seeker, we’d be dead without her. That must count for something?” the dwarf asked as he came closer, the crossbow strapped to his back. And after a moment’s hesitation, the woman lowered her sword.

 _Seeker_ , he had said. Ros swallowed hard. If this woman was who she thought…

Cassandra Pentaghast, a Seeker of Truth and descendant of a legendary line of Dragon Slayers. And the Right Hand of the Divine.

“Very well, you did save us…” she grumbled and offered Ros a hand to pull her to her feet. Ros accepted. Moments later, the elven mage had stepped up to them.

“May I?” he asked, pointing at Ros’ left. She nodded, extended the marked hand towards him. He frowned as he began inspecting the cut. “Hm… fascinating… it seems directly linked to the Breach… How did you receive this mark?” he asked.

“I also don’t know _that_ ,” Ros admitted.

“Róisín of Ostwick… I remember you. You were one of the delegates at the conclave!” the Seeker suddenly declared. And there it was again, the sword, pointing at Ros’ throat. “How is it you are still alive?!”

“Again, I don’t know!” Ros defended, her arms raised. She heard a soft hum, something swirled past her ear by barely an inch, and the arrow shot just past Cassandra Pentaghast’s ear. The Seeker’s eyes widened in surprise.

“This woman is under the protection of thane Cullen Lion’s Bane. Lay hand on her,” Mia stepped up to Ros’ side, another arrow already in place. “And that one goes between your eyes.”

“Woah, woah! Everyone stay calm.”

“Seeker, even if she survived the conclave by some miracle, she cannot be the one who caused this disaster. The magic necessary to tear the veil as it has been is too grand for a single mage.”

“She could have had help!” the Seeker barked back at the elf, who tried to reason with her. “Could be an Avvar plot!”

“Our Lady of the Sky was wounded, and she sent us this woman to help us heal the sky. We will protect her, lowlander. We may not want war with your people, but we will not hesitated to take up arms to protect what is ours.”

“And no one likes war, don’t we?” the dwarf added. The Seeker still stared at Ros, still had not lowered her blade.

“Justinia is dead, she might have something to do with it!” she growled.

“I never even _saw_ the Divine,” Ros protested.

“Seeker, their explanation is as good as any. Either way, she has the power to seal the rifts, perhaps she has the power to seal the Breach as well.”

Finally, the Seeker lowered her sword and slipped it back into it’s sheath.

“I believe it when I see it. There is another rift, just a little ways east of here. Help us seal it and I will consider believing your story.”

“Then lead the way, Seeker,” Ros offered.

“Pentaghast. Cassandra Pentaghast.”

And with that, the Seeker headed on, towards the farmstead. The dwarf looked after her for a moment, then turned towards Ros with a grin and a bow.

“Varric Tethras. Rogue, story-teller, and – occasionally – unwelcome tag-along to moody Seekers. At your service.”

“Varric Tethras? _The_ Varric Tethras? Who wrote the _Tale of the Champion_? And…” Ros chuckled a little, with a small blush on her cheeks. “And the _Swords and Shields_ series?”

“Ah, always nice to meet a fan!” Varric declared happily. Ros nodded enthusiastically. Swords and Shields had been a bit of a guilty pleasure of hers. She had discovered it in the Circle library, a book that had no doubt ended up there by mistake, and she had kept it close at hand ever since, wrapped up in the heart-wrenching romance of the fierce redhead soldier and her subordinate, as well as several other relationships around them.

“I’d ask you to sign my copy, but... I fear it was destroyed in the conclave…”

“I’ll send you a new one if you save the world.”

“Just tell me… the mage and her Templar… what became of them?”

“Freckles, do you really want me to spoil it for you?”

“I… want to say no… but I also really want to _know_!”

The dwarf chuckled.

“I’ll get you that copy, promise. Maybe one for your angry friend, too.”

Ros nodded with a smile. She looked over her shoulder at her Avvar protectors, who followed in a bit of distance. Only Mia stayed right by her side and looked increasingly cross, especially now that the dwarf had spoken to her.

“I don’t care for your stories, stone-son.”

“You’d get along famously with the Seeker then. Do you have a name, warrior?”

“Mia An-Ethel O Skyhold, Master of the Hunt.”

“That is quite the name you got there…”

“I am Solas, if there are to be introductions,” the elf said with a smile and his hands gingerly folded.

“He’s our Fade expert,” Varric explained. “Hence the interest in your hand and… the Breach.”

Varric turned and pointed at the sky behind them. Ros turned. She had not been aware just how far away the Breach in the sky was still visible. It could not be made out as a proper tear, but the green shimmer to the sky above the Frostbacks was a clear indication of its location. Her mind wandered to Cullen and the rest of his hold, somewhere in these mountains now. And she wondered what would happen if the Seeker decided she was more useful to them if she stayed around the Chantry. Would the thane mobilise his tribe and attack, to reclaim his ‘property’?

They crossed the farmstead, waded through a shallow stream and went down a slope towards a wider water. By its shore, the Seeker pointed her attention. And there, just before a waterfall, another tear in the veil had opened, spewing demons and whisps out into the realm of the living. Ros sighed when she felt the familiar, painful tug in her hand. And so her work began anew.

* * *

 

After that day, Ros and her Avvar protectors spent several days in the Hinterlands. Not alone, but under the constant vigilance of Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast and her two companions, they travelled the borders of the Frostbacks and closed the numerous Fade rifts that had opened there. And with every rift she closed, Ros’ hand began feeling better and better. And with every day that passed, she was beginning to hope perhaps she could join Cassandra in her efforts to restore order in Thedas. Order that was bitterly needed, judging from the chaos that the war had brought to these parts, and the rifts that additionally complicated things.

But by the early morning of the fifth day in the Hinterlands, that hope was crushed. The sun had not even risen yet when Mia woke her with determined shaking. Ros woke disoriented and confused, was sleepily slipping into her borrowed garments and stumbled out of the tent. Her protectors had already packed and the moment she stepped out, Mia was beginning to fold up her tent.

“What’s going on, why are we getting up so early?”

“We have a long journey ahead of us today,” Mia replied without looking up at her.

“Long journey? Long journey where?”

“We’re returning to the rest of the tribe. We have to report to Cullen what is transpiring here.”

“But… there’s still rifts to close, there’s still people who need help!”

“They are none of our concern.”

“But… no! No I won’t just abandon them!”

Mia turned around and there was nothing of the friend she thought she had made.

“This was not a suggestion. We’re returning to the tribe, as was agreed when we left,” she ordered and put the wrapped up tent in Ros’ arms.

“What if I refuse?!”

“Then I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you,” Mia insisted.

Ros glared at the huntress, but her challenge went unaccepted. Probably because Mia knew very well that Ros was no match, that – in a display of raw strength – she would have no chance whatsoever. And Ros wished her no harm, she did not want to fight. So she would not.

“Fine…” she grumbled, strapped the tent and bedroll to her horse and struggle up onto its back. “What about Cassandra?”

“She’ll figure it out, she’s smart.”

Mia signalled the two other riders and they were on the move moments later. They left behind the Hinterlands and began their exhausting ascent into the Frostback mountains. Ros only looked back once, saw the light of the campsite of the Inquisition Cassandra led in the Hinterlands. She was not sure if she would ever see them again, was not sure of how vastly different her life might have been if she had ran away from the barbarians to stay among the Chantry she knew. But there was no point in wondering about things that would never happen. Instead, she looked forward.          


	5. Paint me like one of your barbarian girls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologise for the title of this chapter, I could not think of anything better :P

Hafgaards pass had many advantages. For one, the ones camped out there could see them coming for miles, while they, down here on the road, were barely even able to guess where the camp was. It was only when an arrow slammed into a tree just off the path that Mia stopped their horses. Her gaze followed the most likely trajectory of the arrow and Ros spotted the well-hidden pillar of smoke above, just as the huntress did. She led them off the road and up a narrow path, hidden between snowy rocks until eventually, they reached the tribe.

There were much more men and women here now, other Avvar of the hold that had joined them on the way. There were more tents, two fire pits, and thanks to the terrain of this pass, some of the tents were even built under the cover of two caves, shielding them from wind and weather.

When their horses approached, the thane rose from what could only be described as his ‘throne’ by the largest fire pit. He came closer with slow steps. There was a quick exchange between him and Mia before they even had climbed off their horses, he concluded it with a nod and then turned towards Ros.

Involuntarily, her heart skipped a beat in her chest. Safe to say, the five days away had blurred her memory of just how impressive and handsome he was. Now he strode towards her, with his black lion mane draped over his shoulders, his golden curls brushed back, amber eyes intent on her. His facial hair had grown quite a bit since they had last seen each other, adding something rugged to his features.

He offered his arm to help her off the admittedly high horse. But Maker, her pride got in the way.

“I can do it just fine on my own,” she declared, flung her leg over to slip off the horse. She had underestimated the height a great deal, and found herself falling, with her upper body toppling forward and she knew she would be unable to swing back and land on her feet. Yet instead of landing face first on the floor, her nose was firmly planted into the dark lion hide, and both her hands were flat on his broad chest. The arm that the thane had offered her as aid had wrapped around her waist and gently lowered her feet safe to the ground. She knew she had to be bright red and it was a mixture between unspeakable anger and genuine embarrassment, for any number of reasons.

“I can see that…” the thane said calmly. He was not mocking, but she could hear the smirk in his voice. Once she stood secure, his arm fell away and he took a decided step away from her. He walked to her horse, mumbled to it in his people’s language while he took her tent and bedroll off its back. Then his amber gaze returned to her. “Follow me,” he ordered.

“What if I don’t?” she asked, arms crossed over her chest. The thane stopped abruptly, turned towards her perplexed.

“What?”

“You heard me. I am not your prisoner, and I am not your property. You can’t _make_ me do anything!”

“Oh I beg to differ,” he said smugly. He then pointed at his tent. “Tent. Now.”

“Make me!” she snapped, entirely intent on not moving an inch from where she stood until he treated her like a person, not a prize. The thane let out a long suffering sigh and shook his head. He put her tent and bedroll in Branson’s arms and marched towards her. Ros gulped. Her attitude had been bigger than her actual physical strength and she knew for certain that he very well _could_ make her do anything.

“As you wish, lowlander,” he said. He wrapped an arm around her waist and – entirely ignoring her protest, flung her over his shoulder as if she were completely weightless. She was protesting most vocally, but was drowned out by the laughter and encouraging cheers of the barbarians in the camp around them. The thane dragged her to the tent behind his throne and with his free hand parted the cover of the entrance. He ducked inside, taking her with him. Once inside, he grabbed her with the other arm, to put her down again. But with her struggling, he was put off balance and they both toppled over, tumbling to the floor where she now found herself atop him, straddling his hips and falling forward so her forehead pumped against his chin. They both gasped, both wide-eyed at the sudden proximity when she looked up. She was at eyelevel with his mouth, that beautifully curved mouth, interrupted only by the scar tearing into his upper lip. And as she lay atop him, his lips curled into a smirk.

She huffed angrily and sat up.

“So much for _‘Oh, I’d never touch you’_.”

“ _Unless_ you ask me too. And I very clearly remember you telling me to ‘make you’ do as you are told. So, here we are.”

“Ugh!! You are _infuriating_!”

She threw her hands up and rushed to climb off his very muscular body, because otherwise she would much rather stay right there and explore. She started pacing around the tent and finally turned towards the thane. He had sat up, watched her with his golden eyes and she crossed her arms. “I will not be treated like property!”

“Alright. How do you want to be treated?”

“I want to be treated as a person. Not a symbol. I will not have others make decisions about my hand. My body is my own and if you intend to use it for your hold, I demand the right to have a say in the decisions you make.”

His brows knitted together and he seemed to ponder over her words. Then, very slowly, he got up to his feet.

“That seems reasonable.”

“I will be involved in decisions on where the hold moves.”

“Right.”

He had begun smirking and it distracted her immensely, the way his lips pulled up slightly, the way it moved his scar.

“A-and…” what was the third point she wanted to make?? Oh, right! “And if any scouts pick up any new information that might help solve the mystery around the conclave and what happened to my hand, I demand to be the first to know of them. No more secretive whispers in… whatever you call that language of yours.”

She had stopped pacing, he instead had started circling her, like he was prowling, on a hunt, ready to strike. It was intimidating, and she was certain he knew that, counted on it in fact. But she refused to let it show. She raised her chin proudly and met his gaze unwavering. “So?”

“I’ll allow it.”

“Well... well _good_!”

She had to admit, that had gone smoother than she had expected. She had not thought he would cooperate so quickly, agree to her terms so easily and without protest. “Why are you circling me like that?”

He stopped his circle, looked at her with an expression she was unable to decipher.

“A…rival thane has heard rumours of you and your… blessing. He has accused me of lying in order to elevate my hold above the others by claiming the Lady gifted you to me.”

“See, that’s what happens if you treat people like property.” Ros mumbled to herself.

“If we fail to respond to these accusations, there may be an attack.”

“So what happens now?”

“Now I ask you if you would be willing to travel to the Fallow Mire with me and a group of warriors to meet the rival clan and erase their doubts.”

“You want me to flail my magic hand around…” she sighed, suffering, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“That would help, yes. There seem to be rifts out there, too. You wanted to close them, so we might as well use that opportunity to eliminate doubt of your blessing.”

“You mean _your_ blessing,” she corrected. She saw exactly what this was. He sighed.

“I will not force my people into a senseless war with another tribe. Not if I can avoid it so easily. I know you don’t care for us, or for our beliefs and our Gods. But if you wish to have all these rights that you just listed to me, I have to ask something in return. And I ask that you come with me to meet this thane and show him my claims are valid.”

She hesitated. His words were sincere, and they made sense. And it would mean finding more Fade rifts she could close and prevent her mark from spreading. And if it meant she would have a say in the actions of the hold and would be treated properly, surely that was not so bad?

“Alright.”

The thane looked up, met her gaze and she saw honest surprise in his gaze. She nodded. “I’ll do it. I’ll meet that rival tribe and play the blessed envoy. If that means I will be considered an equal and have a voice in your hold.”

He nodded. Ros held out her hand to shake on their agreement and he caught it in both his hands. His fingertips travelled over her palm and he never once pulled his eyes from hers.

“Thank you,” he said. And he meant it. 

* * *

 

The journey south was long and exhausting. For many days, they drove their horses, their herd and their people to the brink of breakdown, braving the mountains. Their path led them past the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes again, past the valley of Haven, and then further south, before they turned east and left the mountains at last.

As much as the mountains were their home, it was a relief to have even terrain for a change, for a forced march as the one they had subjected themselves to.

As they left behind the mountains and neared the marshes however, the lighter spirit faded away.

The scars of the Blight were ever present down here, the land poisoned and unhospitable, cruel to those who hoped to settle here. They passed through a village of Andrastians, all of them had fallen victim to a plague and the stench of rotting bodies and funeral pyres still clung to the land here. The air was moist from a drizzle and smelt foul of the marshes, of the bodies rotting in the shallow waters.

They made camp near the plague-wrecked ruins of the village and rid themselves of the heavy, warm clothes they needed in the mountains. Cullen sat in his tent alone, as he often did now that the Marked One had begun mingling with his people. He often saw her with the shamans, learning from them about their craft and in turn teaching them what the Circle might have taught her once. And Mia taught her their tongue, best as she was able to. It was not easy to teach an outsider their ways, but she tried, and that deserved credit.

He liked watching her try.

Once alone, he exchanged the heavy, warm boots for lighter, dark leather stompers. The heavy coat made way for a leather shrug, his black lion hide attacked to hit, closed in the front with the dagger through the fearsome beast’s snout. He dipped his hands in bowls of grey paste and smeared his body with it, let it dry for a while before applying the red and black paint to it. The colour melted into the paste, staining it permanently and his every movement caused a web of cracks to spread in the muddy armour, giving it its unique texture. It was a quiet process, dressing in the traditional Avvar mud paint. And it was not normally a process that was disturbed. But he heard the tent open and looked back over his shoulder.

The Marked One had walked in, carrying her mountain coat in her arms for a change. Instead, she wore skirts and boots of ram leather with white, stroppy fur, held up by a belt adorned with small bone charms, pearls and feathers. The gear of a shaman, no doubt a gift from the augur. She wore no tunic any longer, just a wrap of leather strips to cover the swell of her breasts. Her form was so slender, so soft, her skin so delicate and there were many freckles peppered across her shoulders, and bare arms.

“It gets warm, doesn’t it?” he asked. And he felt dumb for it. What a pointless way to start a conversation. But it was better than to stare in silence, he presumed. For stare he would. At those soft shoulders, that slender neck, exposed by her short hair. His eyes traced the collar bone from her shoulders forward, where his fingertips should touch instead.

“It does. And the shamans say I should look like one of their own, so the other hold will take me serious.”

“A fair point.”

“You should have told me.”

“I didn’t think you would agree to it,” he admitted. It was the truth, he had not thought the lowlander would agree to expose herself so. While she had covered her breast where most Avvar women would not, she still certainly looked the part.

“I want this to go well, Cullen. I want to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. If that means dressing up for them… then so be it.”

He nodded and took the bowl of clay.

“I appreciate it, you know that.”

She nodded and went down to sit on her heels.

“Can I... help? With your back, I mean?”

He hesitated a moment at her question, but then he nodded quietly. He handed her the bowl of grey paste and heard her shuffle closer.

“I just apply it all over?”

“Yes, nothing to get wrong.”

“Well, I had to ask...” she mumbled and he could almost hear the blush. It made him smile. He waited with his eyes closed. After a moment’s hesitation, he felt light fingers stroking over his shoulders. She stroked over his shoulder blades, the back of his neck, and down slowly. He felt a slight tremble and it made him glance over his shoulder.

“Nervous?”

“No,” she hissed. She took a second scoop of paste and spread it down to the small of his back, then up his sides again. He heard her draw in a deep breath. And her nails scraped over his paint covered skin. He still felt it, it still sent shivers down his spine and right into his loins. “I’m done... I think...” she whispered and her hands left his body.

“Good. Now the only one missing paint is you.”

“Alright. Show me.”

He hesitated a moment. He had _not_ expected her to agree to that, either. He set down the bowl, took a jug of water and spilled a bit of it into the drying paste. He stirred with his hands, until the texture was right, then motioned for her to come closer. She did as she was asked and moved in front of him.

“The… paint symbolises the Mountain Father. It is his body and it protects us. We wear it proudly to honour him.”

He took her right arm, and from the back of her hands started to paste the clay on her skin. She was incredibly soft to the touch, even through the texture of the clay on his hands. There was not a single blemish on her. She was untouched, flawless. The only scars she had were remnants of cuts on her wrists, scars he had seen often on the shamans. Up to her elbow his hands wandered, then to her shoulders, covering the sweet freckles under dark grey. In broad strokes, his large hands covered her skin with ease. He took her left arm, careful not to hurt the mark in her palm as he repeated the procedure in ritualistic precision. She let him do his work, quietly watched his movements.

Once both her arms were covered, he brushed the clay over her collarbone, up her neck, along the trim of the breastband she wore. His mouth went dry as he brushed along the supple, soft swell. He tried to focus on only his hands as he stroked the clay over her breasts, tried not to think about how lovely they felt, how perfectly they fit his hands, how she drew in a deep breath when he touched her. He tried not to wonder what it might feel like if there was no leather band between them, wondered what it would feel like to circle her nipples with his thumbs, wondered if it would draw moans from her.

He scooped up more paste to clear his mind and then continued applying it to her stomach, covering her bellybutton and the small bump where her hipbones began, just above the skirts. How often had he applied the paint to other’s? Growing up, he had helped all three of his siblings, then several others in the hold, fellow warriors and hunters, men and women alike. It was always just something they did. As much as the Gods meant to them, as much as this paint meant to them, he had never considered it extraordinary or an honours to be the one to touch another’s body in such a way.

This was different. He dared not speak, dared not look up to meet her bright eyes when his coarse hands covered her divine skin with a symbol of their ancient traditions. That he had the privilege to touch her, in such a way… it humbled him, yes. But it also made him want to claim her all the more.  

He cleared his throat. “Turn around,” he instructed. She obliged immediately, not a word left her lips as she shuffled on her knees to turn her back to him. She leaned her head forward a little as he began applying the clay to her neck, her shoulder blades, over the leathers of the breastband and down towards the dip in her spine. As his hands moved lower, she suddenly gasped and arched her back away. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s… I’m ticklish back there…” she whispered, glancing back at him briefly over her shoulder and he saw the blush on her cheeks. It made him smile. The knowledge of that sensitive spot just where her back met the curve of her hips was burned into his mind, and he swore, so the Gods allowed it, one day he would caress that spot when she straddled him, rode him, moaned his name. He continued carefully, spreading the clay across her back, then stroked up her sides gently, closing the last gaps of pale skin with the rest of the clay. His hands came to rest on her arms and when he looked up he met her gaze, watching him over her shoulder.

“Done…”

“What now?” she asked, her voice a husked breath and he had to lean closer to hear her.

“Now it dries for a few minutes, before the paint is applied.”

“Right…” she whispered. Her blue eyes fluttered up to meet his briefly, shyly almost. “What do we do while it dries?”

“Whatever you want…” he whispered back, his voice dry as sand in his throat. His arm came around her slowly, and gave her a gentle nudge, made her lean with her back against his chest. His hand splayed across her stomach, the other entwined his fingers with hers and his chin nearly rested on her shoulder. Her head turned slightly, breath came hot and ragged and he saw her chest heave with every draw of air. He was so hungry, so thirsty, and he had never in his life wanted anyone the way he wanted her right now. Never wanted anything as much as he wanted her lips on his now.

She tilted her head up, ever so slightly, and he felt her lips brush the corner of his. She hesitated, and he was almost certain he was about to explode.

“Cullen… I…” she whispered, her blue eyes jumping between his hazel and his lips. He saw her tongue wet those pink lips of hers, she swallowed hard and he was not entirely sure if she did this on purpose because she knew it was driving him insane. So close, so close he could taste her, taste her in the air she was breathing on his lips, and all it would take was to move his chin forward to catch her lips with his.

“My thane!”

A man’s voice outside the tent made them both jump. His arm pulled away from her stomach and she turned her face away from him.

“What?!” he asked, his voice angry and gruff as he got to his feet and marched to the entrance of the tent. He stepped outside to find a young hunter await him. The young man – barely even a man really – nearly jumped out of his boots. “What?” Cullen repeated, slightly calmer this time.

“The… uhh… the Hand of Korth sends his regards. He will meet with you and the Marked One at dusk, at his hold.”

The Hand of Korth. Cullen rolled his eyes a little. He considered it presumptuous of the man to claim the Mountain Father considered him an executing force. But then again, they claimed to have a girl touched by the Lady of the Sky. He still doubted the Hand’s claim was as solid as Róisín’s was.

“Very well. We will set out to meet him soon. Tell the others to prepare”

“Yes, my thane.”

The young hunter scurried away and Cullen watched him rile up the rest of the warriors and hunters that had accompanied them here. He rubbed a hand in the back of his neck, where his hairs seemed to tingle with the thought of returning into the tent. To her. What did that interruption leave them with? Awkwardness? After an almost kiss he desperately wanted to turn into a real kiss. He wanted to storm back in there, cup her face in both hands and pull her against him, kiss her so she’d never be able to think of another man’s lips on hers again.

But instead, he returned into the tent as controlled as his body allowed.

“So we’re ready to meet with this… Hand of Korth?”

“We are. If you want to finish applying the paint…” Cullen offered, nodding to the second bowl with the red paint. Róisín nodded and he sat down opposite her. He offered her the bowl of red paint and nodded encouragingly.

“I don’t know what to do. Are there… motives I need to include, or…?”

He laughed and shook his head.

“No. Do what you feel. It’s about expressing on your skin what is inside you. Every painting is unique to the person wearing it, different every time they apply it. There is no right or wrong way for this. There is just you.”

She looked up from the bowl in her hands, deeply concerned. He smiled and reached out to brush her hair behind her ear, leaving some drying clay in it. “I’ll leave you too it. Take your time, we have no rush.”

He got up and headed for the entrance when he heard her voice again.

“Cullen,” she said, and it stopped him in his tracks. He looked back at her, waited for whatever she wanted to say, whatever she wanted to ask of him, half hoped she would ask him to finish what they had started. But her words seemed to have gotten away from her, because after a moment of just looking up at him flabbergast, she shook her head. “Never mind… I… it’s nothing. I’ll get to it right away.”

He nodded slowly and then left the tent. No matter how much he did not want to leave.


	6. Lost Souls

Hargrave Keep might have once been a stately fortress, but the Blight had left its scars here. The ruin was falling apart in the Mire.

They passed a gate in the remnants of an ancient stone wall, overgrown with moss and ivy, rotting away under the moisture of the marshes. They met the first camped out Avvar here. Unlike the barbarians of Cullen’s tribe, the men and women here were painted in white and blue. They wore ram hides and skulls over their heads, giving them a fearsome appearance, with large horns twisting from their heads.

Róisín stayed just a little behind Cullen as they entered the camp under the scrutiny of the Avvar set up here. He was wary of them all, she could tell by the way he held himself. Hands on the handle of his sword, gait ready to attack at any moment should this gracious invitation prove a trap. And Ros admitted she missed something to occupy her hands and feel safe. A staff – as symbolical as they may be – that would allow her to demonstrate greater control and focus of her magic. In a way she felt handicapped without it.

They climbed up a set of stone steps and were met at the top by a large warrior.

“Greetings, Cullen Lion’s Bane. Greetings brethren of Skyhold.”

Cullen stepped up to the highest step to meet the warrior face to face. He was slightly taller than the ram horned warrior, but – and Ros had not believed that was actually, physically possible – the other Avvar was larger in his physique, more muscular. And heavier from the looks of him.

“Greetings, brethern of Hargrave Keep.”

“Bring you the Marked One?” he asked.

Cullen stood motionless for a moment. Ros could not see his face, but she assumed he was trying to determine how safe they were here. Then, finally, he took a half step aside and extended his hand to her. Ros sprang into motion, climbing up the first few steps before she could take the thane’s hand. His fingers closed around hers instantly, holding her hand securely as if he had no intention of letting her go any time soon. And quite immediately it made her think of the moment they had shared earlier in his tent. _A moment_ , there was no other way to describe it. A moment in which she would have given herself up completely, had he only closed his lips over hers. She felt guilty, to say the least, because she was quite obviously trying to gain a footing in the clan that would assure that she could do whatever she wanted. And she was quite certain he knew that.

But at the same time, that moment they had shared in his tent… it had stirred up all kinds of things in her. The way his hands felt when they applied the base for the paint. The way he had touched her so cautiously yet so certain, the way his fingers followed the lines of her body – collarbone, shoulder blades, navel. Even when he had touched her breasts she had not felt like he was groping, but rather worshipping. And then… how close their lips had come, so close she had felt them just for the briefest moment. And she would have gladly let him kiss her, had they not been interrupted. Truly, she had very nearly called him back, asking him to finish that kiss or Maker, she would probably spontaneously combust with need for his lips. But in the end she had not gone through with it, shyness taking the better of her yet again.

The way he held her hand now called back all these thoughts and she could not help but glance up at him, at his magnificent profile next to her. “Show it. The Hand of Korth will not welcome you unless we see it first.”

There was another pause and then, very slowly, Cullen nodded towards her. Ros raised her left between them and the other warrior, dipping the air between them in soft, pale green light. She heard murmurs behind them, saw more horned Avvar from the corner of her eye, trying to get a better look at the so called Marked One.

“The rifts in the sky bend to her will.”

“A bold claim, Lion’s Bane,” the warrior growled. Then he stepped aside. “But that’s for our thane to decide.”

Cullen nodded and with not another word, they walked past the warrior. Ros felt watched, felt the stares of the other Avvar on them, and the fact that there was a small army of their own warriors and hunters behind them did little to ease her nerves. Cullen seemed to feel it to, because without warning, he pulled her closer by the hand he still held and then had an arm around her shoulders, holding her against him in what could only be described as a protective embrace.

They walked up more stone steps, and past more tents. The barbarians watched them, like they had just been served dinner, and blades were being sharpened. It was entirely possible – Ros realised – that if the Hand of Korth was unimpressed by her and concluded Cullen had to be a liar, they would have to fight their way out of here. And she knew she did not want that. For a number of reasons, but mostly because she did not want to use her magic to hurt. 408 days on the run from Templars, she had been forced to do terrible things with her magic. Things she had to do to survive, things she did never wish to repeat, things she felt disgusted for every time her gaze brushed over the scars on her wrists now. The regret for the things she had to do to survive gnawed on her, ate away at her like a parasite. And she knew if there would be a battle, there was no escaping that part of her anymore.

Her mind was pulled from the possibility of having to fight the barbarians here when she spotted something oddly familiar in a place where it should not be. There was a banner on a broken piece of wood, the fabric partly torn, dirty with mud and crusted blood. But she recognised it none the less. The fierce, bright crimson, the golden sun of the Chantry, the eye of the Seekers of Truth and Andraste’s flaming Blade of Mercy pierced through it.

That was the symbol of the Inquisition. The symbol Seeker Cassandra and her soldiers waved. Ros frowned. As she looked around more carefully, there were more signs. The barbarians were taking apart belts with shiny, silver buckles that were all too familiar. Part of the uniform the Inquisition soldiers had worn. She drew in a shaking breath as she leaned over to Cullen.

“These belong to the Inquisition,” she whispered.

“What?”

“The banners. And these buckles. And the making of the fabric they are dying over there. These were Inquisition equipment, I saw the like when we were in the Hinterlands,” she explained. Cullen followed her gaze and now he, too, frowned. “They would come here to investigate the Fade rifts...”

“And if this tribe captured them, they might have tortured information out of them. About you and your blessing, and about the hunters you were travelling with,” Cullen added. Ros nodded.

“We have to help them, we have to get them out of here.”

“They might be dead already, lowlander.”

“Then we have to find their bodies. I will not leave them here. They are my people.”

“Your _people_ chased you away from your home...”

She stopped, caught his arm and made him look at her.

“Cullen, please. We can’t leave them here.”

His eyes narrowed and he seemed to debate. But then he sighed.

“Fine. I’ll talk to The Hand of Korth about it, perhaps he will cooperate if we can prove your blessing.”

She sighed relieved and nodded.

“Thank you.”

They continued up the steps until they reached what had no doubt once been the throne room of this ruin. The ceiling had collapsed, granting a beautiful view of the sky where a large full moon hung low above them and rainclouds moved past in slow winds. The wall where the throne once must have stood had been torn down, now offering a view off the cliffs upon which the fortress had been built, and overgrown vegetation. On the stone steps leading up to the former throne stood four hunters with bows carved from ram horns. And atop the steps waited a man so huge Ros hardly even believed he was real. Over his shoulder, he had flung an axe massive enough it would split a grown man in one swing. There was no doubt this had to be The Hand of Korth.

“There she comes, the lowlander impostor, taking the name of our Lady in her filthy mouth.”

Ros heard bowstrings being pulled back behind her, knew that Mia and at least five other hunters had an arrow ready while the hunters on the steps did the same. Cullen stepped forward with his arms raised.

“We can resolve this peacefully! You asked us here to prove our claims and that is what we have agreed to do. Will you truly insult the Mountain Father by breaking a promise you made in his name?” he asked. Ros stood frozen and still. She was admittedly impressed by Cullen’s skill at diplomacy, but also knew that they were balancing on the thin edge of a blade and one wrong step would cause terrible bloodshed. The hand of Korth let his axe drop from his shoulder and he dragged it behind him as he came down the steps. The grating of metal on stone made Ros shudder.

The man came closer. He towered over Cullen by almost a head, a thick beard fell down his chest, covered in blue paint. His dark eyes narrowed and he began spouting angry words at Cullen in their shared language. Now Ros had picked up a thing or two of the language during their shared travel to the Fallow Mire. It was not enough to understand all their words, but enough to understand that the Hand of Korth was very cross with Cullen calling him a traitor to protect ‘His lowlander whore’. Which, Ros assumed, was supposed to be her. And in response, Cullen had his sword drawn so fast Ros barely even saw the movement. The blade lay flat on the giant’s chest in an unmistakable gesture of threat. Through gritted teeth, their thane responded and she assumed he defended her honour right now, although she had trouble catching what he growled at the other man.

The Hand of Korth laughed and pushed the thane aside. He reached out and before Ros could react, he had snatched her left and pulled her closer. Close enough to smell his foul breath and sweat as he pulled her up so her palm was before his eyes. His large hand squeezed painfully around her wrist. He looked her up and down with a slow, lecherous gaze, then licked his lips and turned back to Cullen. He laughed and said something surely coarse before he let go of her hand. Ros clutched her hurting wrist and her gaze met Cullen. His eyes were almost black now, and the anger on his face was so white and hot, she actually flinched back. The man was just about ready to bury his sword deep in the other thane’s large body.

Another exchange took place between the two men and finally, The Hand of Korth nodded. With surprisingly quick steps considering the heavy weight of his weapon, he climbed back to his hunters. He made a loud declaration and the next thing Ros knew, his hunters were cheering. Cullen turned from them, grabbed her by the arm and took her with him towards their own hunters.

“What was that about?! What’s going on?!”

“Not here,” he growled, his eyes shifting towards the hunters in white and blue. He dragged her down the steps with her.

“Cullen... Cullen! You’re hurting me!”

The thane abruptly stopped in his tracks and pulled his hand away from her. He looked at her like he had just seen a ghost, or like he had just woken up, disoriented and confused. She came closer, put her hands on his arms. “Cullen, what’s wrong?”

“He... he’ll send their augur with us, he will show us to the nearest rift and witness your command of the Sky, your blessing.”

“That’s not what’s bothering you. What’s going on?” she asked. He gritted his teeth and she grew more insistent. “ _Talk_ to me, Cullen.”

“He... he said vile things of you. Things no respectable Avvar would ever say of any woman, no matter the circumstance. He is not a good man.”

“We don’t need him to be a good man, Cullen. We need him to stop harassing your people and we need him to release the Inquisition soldiers.”

“You should be more upset about this. You should be _furious_!” Cullen growled.

“You need to stay calm, Cullen. I get it, him insulting me is an insult to you, I know the drill. But-”

“You think this is about _me_?” Cullen interrupted her.

“Y-yeah? I mean... the whole ‘she’s under my responsibility so any offence to her is an offence to me’. I thought...”

“No, Róisín, no. This is _not_ about me. This is-”

He did not finish, but seemed to go through the words in his head. Unable to say them, for whatever reason. She stared up at him surprised. Not only because he was clearly so angry he had lost his words, but because he had used her name. He had never called her anything other than ‘lowlander’ or ‘Marked One’ and she had been almost convinced he did not even remember her name. But he did, apparently. And he reserved it for a time like this? He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Lets meet their augur and get away from here as soon as possible.”

He turned, a hand on her back to push her with him gently. What had he wanted to say, she wondered? What was the real reason for his anger? 

* * *

 

The augur of this tribe was a man, tall and burly, but with kind eyes and a laugh in his voice.

“Greeting, thane Lion’s Bane. And this is the lowlander our Lady blessed?” he asked as he came closer. They had gathered at the gate of the fortress and met the older mage there. And although he was intimidating and dressed in the hide of a beast, there was something trustworthy and warm about this shaman. It made Ros smile. She bowed a little and nodded. The augur laughed. “She is tiny! I like her!”

“Thank you for welcoming us here,” she said with a smile. The shaman pointed them towards the path and they followed him, Ros by his side, Cullen a little ways behind, guarding their backs no doubt.

“So, tell me, lowlander. How did the Lady bless you?”

“Honestly? I do not know. One minute I was in the Temple, waiting for the Divine to address us. Next thing I know, I wake up with this mark on my hand and the ability to close rifts. And every time the big one in the north grows, so does the mark. It hurts me and I think if I don’t find a way to stop it... it’ll kill me,” Ros explained. The shaman listened attentively. Then his gaze wandered to the nightsky.

“You know, lowlander, the word augur in your language would mean ‘Sky Watcher’. People like me watch for signs from our Lady. Personally, if your augur believes you have been blessed, I will take her word for it. Sadly, my thane is very adamant in his belief to be the only blessed of our people alive today. The thought of an outsider chosen by Our Lady... terrified him.”

“I did not want any of this to happen...”

“And I believe that. But if Our Lady chose you, she did that for a reason. She must have plans for you. Big plans. And that scares men. It scared them when your prophetess Andraste was chosen and they burned her in their fear. And it scares men now just the same.”

“So you say I should be careful or they will burn me at the stakes?” Ros asked, pulling a face. Now wouldn’t her family just love that? A Trevelyan, died as a martyr and chosen by Gods. The only way they would love that any more would be if it were the Maker who chose her, instead of a barbarian Goddess.

The shaman laughed.

“Oh no, that will not happen to you,” he said, then looked over his shoulder and nodded. “He will not let that happen to you.”

Ros glanced back over her shoulder at Cullen, with his large lion mane and his fierce gait and the moment their eyes met, she had to turn away because she remembered the burning in the embers of his eyes when they had been so close. The augur next to her just laughed, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking about.

They waded through the unpleasant territory for a good hour, maybe a bit more. They passed abandoned huts, the massive Weeping Spires, crossed flooded plains. More than once Ros miss-stepped and sank almost to her waist into murky waters. And more than once she was absolutely certain clam, cold fingers tried to pull her further down. But every time she managed to get out of the water, mostly with Cullen’s help and with much complaining on her part. She was definitely not made for the Wilds. Not. At. All.

“Can I ask something, augur?” she finally approached the shaman again.

“Anything, lowlander.”

“In the keep, we noticed some familiar banners. Inquisition banners, actually. Did your tribe capture their soldiers?”

“A group of scouts was trespassing on our territory, yes. The thane had them captured and interrogated.”

“Why were they here?”

“They were investigating the tears in the sky. They were the ones who told us they had met a woman with the ability to heal the sky, travelling with a sister tribe from the mountains. Without them, we would have possibly never heard of you.”

“What became of the scouts?” Ros inquired.

“They are still in the keep, in confinement.”

“Surely now you have met us, the Hand of Korth will have no more need to keep them around?”

“Hm…” the augur contemplated with a hand on his beard. “True. He may plan to execute them…”

“Could he be convinced to release them instead?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

The augur glanced over at her and then pointed ahead. Ros followed his sign and there, just ahead of them, she could make out the familiar green glow of a Fade rift.

“On whether or not your claims proof true.”

Ros sighed. So the familiar dance started again. They approached the shimmering tear in the Fade. This one was bigger than many of the others she had seen in the Hinterlands and as they approached, she could feel its magic burn in her hand. Whisps were swarming around the rift, flickering angrily as the strangers approached.

“I need them out of the way.”

Cullen did not hesitate even a second. He drew his sword and pulled his shield from his back, slipped it on his left and marched forward. With his blade, he drummed against the shield, creating a sharp noise in the bleak silence of the Mire. It pulled the attention of the whisps instantly, taunting them, luring them towards him into an aggressive dance. His blade could not harm the creatures, the steel sliding through them with ease, leaving him with nothing to do other than evading them and keeping them busy.

Ros had no intention of leaving him alone to struggle much longer. She marched up to the rift, determination in her movements. As she came closer, her hand came up almost on its own, linking her to the rift with green sparks and lightning. The air began to whirl around the rift, the whisps that were attacking Cullen were frozen by a burst of energy and disintegrated, their magic melting back into the flow returning into the Fade through the rift.

The ground beneath her feet turned black, boiling with foul green. And when something wrapped around her ankle, Ros looked down alarmed. A face stared up at her, more teeth than anything else, belonging to a bony, long limbed creature covered in waxen skin. A terror demon, she realised in just the second before it was too late.

The creature burst from the ground beneath her feet and knocked Ros back. The connection between her and the rift broke as the creature ascended with a vicious shriek and then leapt forward to grab both her ankles. Ros gasped when she was yanked forward across the muddy stones. She screamed, tried to get a hold of something, anything, her mind washed blank of any and all spells she had ever learned. She grabbed hold of the last few bricks of a stone wall as the demon dragged her along, held on to them for dear life, screaming.

She felt the bricks give and the next moment, they toppled over. Ros felt her fingernails drag over stone and then she grabbed only air, nothing left to hold onto as the demon dragged her under. They splashed into the murky water, she was pulled down, water came crashing over her head and she had only barely managed to draw in enough air. It pulled her deeper, feasting on her fear, her obvious terror of possibly drowning here. And as they sank deeper and deeper, she heard the whispers.

_You know you can free yourself. You know you have the power. All you have to do… is give in… cut… let your power flow… let me help you, let me set you free…_

Ros felt it, the temptation, lick at her ear, make her heart race. _Fear_. Always _fear_. Always the one she was most vulnerable to. Fear of the dark during her early years in the Circle, fear of the unfamiliar, fear of Templars. Always afraid. Always, always afraid. And the chance to conquer fear, so tempting, so close.

She shook in wild protest and screamed into the dark waters, hands in fists, fire burning up inside her, bursting from her. In an explosion of inferno magic, the water evaporated around her. The demon shrieked in frustration at her resistance. Ros got to her feet, struggling to breath still, the sensation of drowning still fresh in her bones. And the demon rose before her, its spindly limbs twisting and turning as it made to attack.

“No! No I will not give in to you! You cannot tempt me! I am strong! I am not afraid! I am not afraid!!” she screamed at it, and with every word she summoned flames, casting them towards it, driving it back, and conquering fear. Until eventually, it burst. With a terrible shriek and green sparks, the demon disintegrated. Ros stood exhausted for a long moment, before she fell to her knees, shivering, sobbing. Always fear. Why did it always have to be fear? Honestly, at this point she was so exhausted with fighting fear, she would probably give in to the first desire demon to swagger around the corner, just for the change of scenery.

“Róisín!”

She looked over her shoulder at the thane running towards her. Cullen had sword and shield still in hands, still ready to fight anything that got in his way, but his features showed no aggression. Just concern. He slowed next to her and crouched by her side, a hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“I’m… I’m fine…”

“I saw you get dragged under water… I tried to get to you, but…”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I had it under control.”

She shook off his hand, turned away to wipe her tears off her face without him noticing. She felt so weak. So useless. All it took was one terror demon and she turned into a sobbing, useless mess. What use was that great magic of hers if she could not protect herself with it unless she started cutting again? She clasped her arms around her torso, shivering in the cold, soaked to the bone, and all she could think of was dragging a blade across her wrist and protecting herself from anything. Of course it was nonsense, she knew that. She knew blood magic got her nowhere, only to a horrible end either at the hands of the Templars or as a monstrosity. But no matter how much she tried to tell herself that they drove them to do it, that they made them so afraid that they had only one solution left to protect each other, she still knew they all had made the cuts themselves. No Templars had held their hands and made them cut. There was no one to blame but them. That was the ugly, dirty truth, a truth that made her skin crawl with disgust and she could not look Cullen in the eyes and admit just how weak she had been.

“The rift seems quiet now…” the augur said as she approached him now. She nodded quietly and walked up to the remnant of the rift, half torn from the disruption earlier. She raised her hand, re-established the energy connection, and this time there were no surprises, no demons or whisps. Just the familiar tingle of energy and then the rift collapsed.


	7. The Stealing of the Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is a relatively descriptive rape threat in this chapter and a bit of gore, so if you are uncomfrotable reading that, feel free to skip out on this chapter.

Music and dance and bonfires, the smells of roast meat, human sweat, and the ever present stench of the Mire, all mixed together in a dizzying cloud above the keep that night. Ros sat by the fire, was handed ale and food left and right, things to try, gifts produced by the tribe hosting them. A ram hide cloak, warm and soft despite still smelling of wet animal. A necklace made of small bird bones and feathers. A pastry filled with indefinable meat.

She smiled and nodded and thanked and accepted, but all she could think about was fear. Looming, lingering fear of everything. Every shadow, wicked and distorted by the dancing flames in the fire pits. Every sudden sound, every sudden movement. She was jumpy and all she wanted to do was get away. Out. Leave. But she sat between Cullen and Mia and opposite the Hand of Korth with a bonfire between them, and all eyes were on here at all times. There was nowhere to go, no moment she could steal for herself, no chance to breathe, to rest, to calm down after the events in the swamps. And no matter how often she told Cullen she was fine when he asked if she was feeling alright, it would not magically turn into the truth.

The festivities came to a halt when the augur of their hosts came forward, an intricate staff in his hands – made from old, twisted, dark wood of the Mire and decorated with bird bones and feathers. He made a dramatic speech, presenting the staff to the entire tribe was he walked around the largest fire pit, earning cheers from every Avvar around whether they were painted red or blue. Eventually, he came to a halt before Ros. The old shaman smiled.

“Marked One. Sent by Our Lady to heal the sky. Allow me to present you with a gift from our tribe. This staff has been in our possession since long before the Blight poisoned this land, when all here was alive and beautiful. It is a symbol of Our Lady, the birds are her messengers in life and in death. Will you accept this, young augur?”

Ros gasped. Her? An augur? That felt wrong, felt like she was intruding in their culture in ways she should not. But as she was just about to politely decline, Cullen leaned over just enough to whisper:

“It would be an insult to them if you didn’t accept.”

Ros forced a smile and a nod, then got to her feet before the old shaman. As she moved, so did everyone else, watching her rise to her feet and step towards the old mage. The music had stopped and even the musicians were now staring.

“It… would be an honour to accept this… precious gift.”

The augur smiled and bowed a little when he presented the staff to her. Ros hesitated a moment, then reached out and let her fingers hover over the dark wood. She could feel the energy underneath, the kind of low humming only a magic focus had. This was a fine staff, beautifully crafted, if a little macabre. Carefully, her fingers closed around the wood. She let go of a breath she had hardly remembered holding in. It felt good to have a focus again. Like a missing part had been restored to her. Or like she had been given back a crutch for her limp. She smiled and nodded. “Thank you,” she added with a bow as she took the staff from the augur. It was surprisingly light, a little unbalanced compared to the standard issue Circle staves, but it lay well in the hands and she was now actually quite happy she had accepted.

She sat back down, the staff lay next to her, and she saw Cullen nod appreciatively next to her and soon the feast continued, the music resumed and so did the dancing – mostly with men and women leaping over fire pits on dares. They were handed more ale and stronger liquors, compliments to various families of the host tribe.

Eventually, Ros turned towards Cullen.

“Will you excuse me for a moment? I am feeling a little dizzy and think a walk would help me a great deal.”

“I’ll join you,” he replied, and was already halfway on his feet. She caught his shoulder.

“No, Cullen, it’s fine, really. I… need a moment by myself. Please.”

“Not here.”

“Nothing is going to happen. Look at them. I am practically holy to them, no one here wishes me any harm. I’ll be fine. I won’t be long, I promise.”

He seemed cross, seemed entirely unwilling to let her go by herself and she half expected him to tie her down, or throw her over his shoulder yet again to keep her in line. But instead, he sat back down and nodded.

“As you wish. But stay within the keep, there are creatures out there in the wilds and… I want you to be safe.”

Ros hesitated a moment, a little surprised, but then she nodded and left the fireside, left his side.

She left behind the feast and fires and wandered towards quieter parts of the fortress, through ruined rooms, staying close to the few fire bowls that gave light in this seemingly unending night. Her eyelids were heavy, and her bones weary from the long day, her head was aching with both the foul smell of this place and the intoxication from ale and liquor, and the greasy food made her feel a little sick now, having had too much of it.

Once the music was little more than the faint rumbling of drums in the distance, she found a small piece of collapsed wall that looked comfortable enough to sit on, and she pulled her legs up, arms wrapped around her knees, and watched the full moon above. There was a drizzle in the air, coming from the many clouds that moved over the Mire, and everything was cool and wet.

She glanced at her left palm, the rough edges of that magical cut of hers, that mark that had brought her into this strange place, with these strange people and their stranger customs. And there were other cuts too, covered under paint and mud now. Marks of her fear.

Fear had always been her companion, always been the one following her, ever since her Harrowing. It had always tried to corrupt her, always tried to tempt her because it knew just how frightened she was in her heart. Knew that despite the bravado and the attitude she put on, all she truly was, was a scared child far away from home. And she was always that, was she not? She had been a scared child away from home back in the Circle, with only her brother being something familiar, something she clung to desperately. She was a scared child on the run from the Templars for 408 days after their Circle had been annulled. And now she was a scared child among barbarians whose language she did not speak and who believed her to be some kind of miracle. But she was not. She was just scared. So demons of fear and terror had always been drawn to her, had always felt they could use her, knew how vulnerable she was, how her fear would eventually drive her into doing something foolish.

Her thumb brushed over the scars invisible under the paint. She knew exactly where each of them was, remembered exactly how it had felt when she dragged the dagger across her skin just deep enough to draw blood. Something foolish indeed.

She closed her eyes for a moment, leaned her head back against the stone, listened to only her breath. Maker, she could not wait to leave this place. Forget about the smell, the swamp, the terror demon, forget it all and-

The sound of approaching steps caught her attention and she sighed. Cullen, no doubt. Not even for five minutes could he just let her be, let her breathe. She blinked.

“I told you I’d be fine, I-”

The figure approaching in the dark was not Cullen.

She could tell immediately, just by the way this man – clearly a man – walked. He had nothing of the quiet majesty the Lion’s Bane called his own, not the measure in his steps, not the strength in his shoulders. This one moved heavy and slow. And as the figure came closer she could see ram’s horns atop his head. One of the local tribesmen.

Ros stood up abruptly, not sure what to expect, what to say or do. And then she recognised the Hand of Korth.

“You left the feast early, Marked One,” he said.

“I was not feeling well… Too much drink, I suppose,” she replied, reluctant. She could not help but remember the words Cullen had said to her earlier that day. That the Hand of Korth had used slurs about her so vile no respectable Avvar would repeat them. That he was not a good man. She felt her breath shake in her lungs, felt the prickle of fear in the back of her neck and it just made her stand prouder.

“Yes, the brew is quite strong, is it not? Feel free to make use of my rooms to lie down if you wish.”

He came closer, too close for her liking.

“Thank you for the offer, but that will not be necessary. I think I’ll ask Cullen to accompany me back to our camp.”

“Hm… Cullen… he doesn’t appreciate what he has been given, the fool.”

“Pardon?”

Ros took a step back and her heels hit the wall. The huge barbarian was so close now his enormous frame blocked out any light.

“It’s true. Our Lady sent him a gift and he _wastes_ it. If you were mine…”

“I am not anybody’s. Not Cullen’s, not yours, no one’s!” she interrupted.

She gasped when a large hand closed around her throat and she was lift up just enough that her toes no longer touched the ground, her back pressed against the hard bricks. Her eyes widened in horror.

“I wouldn’t let you go to waste, like he does. You are a gift from the _Gods_. Any self-respecting thane worthy of the name would have spread your legs the night he found you, put is seed in you to carry blessed children for him. You are _wasted_ on a weak boy.”

The giant’s second hand grabbed her leg and Ros kicked and screamed best as she could with his hand crashing down on her windpipe. She scratched, dragged her fingernails across his face in the only moment she could reach it because he was leaning closer. He gasped and she saw his eyes turn dark, teeth gritted with anger as red streams became visible on his cheek. And he slapped a flat hand across her face so hard head snapped against the stone, leaving her dizzy for a moment. He just laughed as he hooked her leg over his elbow. “Wasted, I tell you. But if I steal you from him… you’ll be _mine_. And I’ll treat you right. You will be _my_ gift from the Lady.”

Fear. Pulling at the back of her mind as the barbarian pressed closer, his heavy body covering her, an obvious erection between them. Fear making her heart race in her chest.

_No!_

No, she would not be anyone’s plaything! Not his, not a Templar’s, not a terror demon’s. _No! Enough!_

She pressed her hands flat against his chest and pushed and screamed and sought all magic she could find in her to push back.

The fire that burst from her then was green. It was her inferno, she could tell, but the colour had changed, had been warped by the stinging cut in her hand. The pain had returned, burning, screaming in her blood. It set her on fire.

The Hand of Korth stumbled backwards, over his own feet he fell and now it was her who did the threatening. Now it was he who scurried away on all fours from the woman surrounded by green flames.

“How dare you?! How dare you lay hand on me?!” she asked, her voice louder than it should be, stronger, fuelled by the fire of her magic. She burned like a beacon in the night, certain she would attract the attention of the men and women at the feast. She did not care. She stared at the barbarian still trying to get away from her and she grabbed his beard. Her touch set the hairs on fire instantly. He screamed and writhed as green flames licked at his face, chest, his neck, burning, boiling.

“Forgive me! Lady of the Sky! Forgive me! Mercy! Mercy!!”

“There is no mercy for one so weak he must steal from a good man and force himself onto an unwilling woman! There is no mercy for one who spoils the name of the Mountain Father as you have! There is no mercy!”

Ros looked up, not sure herself where these words had come from – perhaps she was more blessed by the Lady of the Sky than she had been willing to admit. For when she looked up now, there was a figure standing in the distance, a woman, terrible and angry and powerful. Ros gazed down at the whimpering man again and saw the raw, naked fear in his eyes.

And she stepped back. Because fear was no way to die, she knew that.

The flames slowly died, returning to their natural red colouring before they vanished completely and all that was left was a crying man in the dark on his knees.

“Mercy… mercy… mercy…” he sobbed, over and over, with nothing left of the giant he had been moments earlier.

“He deserves no mercy.”

Ros looked up. The woman she had seen – or thought she had seen – was their augur. Small and elderly and hunched over she came closer leaning on her staff. Had she just imagined? Had the image of a proud powerful mage been just her imagination before? She was not sure she really knew their augur anymore.

“What’s the meaning of this?!”

Ros looked up, felt her heart skip a beat. Cullen. There was no mistake in his voice or in the shadow of him approaching. More came behind him, carrying torches to the scene. As the light of the fires fell on them, Ros saw the extent of the destruction she had caused. The earth was burnt around her, the stone blackened, the man before her severely injured, burns on his face, his chest, his hands, tears and snot running down his face and she was quite certain he had wet himself in his horror.

“The man tried to steal the Marked One and take her as his unwiling bride. He failed,” their augur spoke, loud enough for all of them to hear. There was something fatalistic in the last two words. He failed. And as she spoke of the failure, the sound of a blade being drawn echoed over the scene. Cullen’s sword reflected the torchlight as he stepped around to stand between Ros and the Hand.

“Are you alright?” he asked, without looking back at her.

“I’m fine.”

She saw his free hand clench to a fist, then he changed the grip on his sword. He looked up at the gathered barbarians and then at his augur. The elderly woman nodded, and so did the second augur. Ros was not entirely sure what was happening anymore. All she could do was watch as Cullen stepped closer to the Hand.

“Laws were broken tonight. The honour of guests has been violated, when a man tried to force himself on a woman unwilling, a woman who was his guest, a woman who was under his protection by the law of the hearth. The Lady of the Sky has been insulted by an act of violence against her chosen one. And the Mountain Father has been insulted by one committing the act of violence in his name. And the stealing of the bride has been thwarted by the bride herself, unwilling to give herself to a man unworthy of her. Each of these crimes on its own would warrant death. What say you in your defence, traitor?”

“Mercy!”

It was all the Hand of Korth could whelp out, for Cullen Lion’s Bane had no mercy in him tonight. The blade came down swiftly and there was hardly a sound when it cut through skin, flesh and bone. The man’s arms fell lifeless and his head rolled off his shoulders. Blood bubbled from the stump and the body collapsed in a pool of red. The stench of freshly spilled blood filled the air, drove nausea into Ros stomach, made her knees shake, forced her to turn away.

The silence falling over the scene was almost physically painful. Ros could hear her own heart racing, her own blood rushing through her ears. She barely heard anything of the two augur of the two involved tribes declaring that the wounded party in this dispute had been satisfied and that the feast was clearly over. Slowly, the Avvar retreated, each to their camps, leaving the dead thane where he lay.

Only then did Ros feel two hands on her shoulders.

“Róisín…”

“I’m fine… I’m…”

She shrugged off Cullen’s hands, tried to move away, but he caught her, turned her to face him.

“Stop saying that! You’re _not_ fine! You haven’t been fine since that rift in the marshes and you’re _certainly_ not fine now!”

“No, I’m not! I’m _scared_!”

He straightened surprised, because she had flat out yelled at him and this time she let him see the tears. “I am _always_ scared! I have been scared all my life. Of the Circle, of the Templars, of demons, of barbarians apparently! I am scared of _everything_!”

He looked at here wide eyed and shocked and then so soft and helpless. His voice was gentle, quiet, barely more than a whisper when he asked:

“Róisín… is… can I do anything…?”

“I just… I can’t stay here…”

She stepped past him, walked away, and their augur came next to her, wrapped a cloak over her shoulders and helped her hold together her clothes that were half torn from the assault. Only as she started walking with the old woman did she feel the shaking, and the sobs. The augur drew her nearer, her head against her shoulder, and patted her hair.

“Hush, girl… all will be well… you are safe now… you will not be harmed again, you are protected, and much loved…”

Ros did not look back to see Cullen stand alone and defeated.


	8. She wants to be held

She sat in the tent. Flames from the fire pit outside were gently changing the lighting inside, every time a breeze brushed them, going from low red to warm gold. Ros sat on her bedroll, legs pulled up, knees pressed under her chin, arms wrapped around them. And she cried. She cried silently, sobs shaking her but no sound came from her lips. Tears ran down her cheeks, hot and salty, painful in her throat when she tried to push them down, to hold them back. Crying got her nowhere! She knew that, but the tears clearly had not gotten the message.

She saw shadows move, just outside. The familiar silhouettes of Cullen and Mia. They exchanged words, whispered so low she could not make out what they said. They both turned towards her tent then and she braced for either of them to enter, drew in a deep breath and swallowed a gulp of tears. But they turned away again, their silhouettes moving on, away from her.

Ros pulled at the leather breast band to get it back in place after slightly slipping at the side, then she wrapped the cloak the augur had given her closer around her, buried herself in the stroppy black feathers adorning the collar. It smelt of incense, dust, and the seeds the augur used to lure birds to her. Strangely comfortable a smell.

When she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself far away. She could imagine sitting by a fire in the Marches, two apprentices playing, giving each other chase around the bonfire. She could imagine Paul sitting next to her, an arm wrapped around her and when she looked over she could almost see his smile.

_Everything will be fine, Ros_. He would say it and she would believe it and he would kiss her hair and she would lean against his shoulder and fall asleep.

She wiped at the tears, gasped as she fell back into the reality, into the here and now, a sob escaped her before she could stifle the sound.

“Lonely sobs in the dark. Why is she alone? She does not want to be? She wants to be held, wants to be listened to. Everything will be fine, Ros.”

She gasped, sat up straight. This was not Paul’s voice, it was not in her imagination, it was very real, and very much right here with her. She turned her head and there he sat. A boy just, lanky and thin and dressed in rags, sat cowered by her side, legs pulled up mirroring her own position. A hat with a large flap hid his face almost entirely. He rocked back and forth a little. “You want to hear it. You want to hear that everything is fine. Like he used to say. He’s gone now, and you’ve been lost since. You are scared, and they know it. They feel it. They are drawn to you like a beacon, like moths flying to the flame. They find you and you burn them away, bright green in dark shadows...” the boy paused and looked up. His face was pale and gaunt, platinum blond fringes dangling in his pale eyes. He watched her, a quizzical look on his face. “What _are_ you?”

Ros gasped.

“Wh-who... who are you? How did you get inhere?” she asked perplexed.

“I am not important. You will forget me. I just want to help. I thought it would help, the words. But it didn’t. You need more. You need him. Brave golden eyes, like a lion, your sword and shield. He is scared, too, because he does not know what to do. He wants to help, he does not know how. Ah!”

The boy got to his feet, Ros watched, still perplexed, with another question at the tip of her tongue but he turned to her and smiled. “I can help. I must talk to him, too. You will forget. Everything will be fine, Ros.”

She blinked and...

Ros sat on her bedroll, legs pulled up, knees pressed under her chin, arms wrapped around them. Somewhere in the distance beyond the dancing fires, she thinks she hears voices...

* * *

 

The door gave after the third attempt, mouldy wood splintering, bursting at the hinges. The men and women behind whimpered, scared and helpless as strangers intruded. Cullen reached back and immediately was handed a torch, illuminating the inside of the dungeon.

Five men and women were cowering on the moist, dirty floor. They had been stripped of the uniforms they had once worn proudly and were dressed in rags now. Wounds of gruesome torture, bruises and ill-looking cuts, covered their bodies. They looked like they had not eaten in days, smelled like they had had no opportunity for personal hygiene in even longer. And with every move he made, they flinched away from him, whimpering.

“It’s alright. You’re safe now, no one will hurt you,” he said, as calm and soothing as he could. Mia came to his side, then carefully went to her knees and pushed an Inquisition belt buckle towards them.

“You are the Inquisition scouts that were captured, are you not? I have met the Seeker, back in the Hinterlands, weeks ago. We can bring you back to them.”

“But... he... he will kill us if we try to leave.”

“The Hand of Korth is dead. I am in charge now. Do you want to leave here and return home or not?” Cullen said, gruffer this time. The scouts nodded nervously.

“Of course!”

One of the women, a stone-daughter, pulled herself to her feet and set herself up as the leader right there, the one to communicate with, the one the others would listen to. “I am Head Scout Harding. Thank you... for releasing us.”

“There is a tent you can rest in. Leave the fort and follow the steps down towards the main gate,” Cullen instructed.

“Thank you,” Harding replied, then helped her fellow scouts to their feet. One of the men broke down in tears as they helped him through the door. Cullen followed them in a little distance, watched as the men and women stepped out to freedom, into the cool drizzle.

He watched as they found their way to the large tent that had been set up for them. And his gaze fell on his own tent by the fire pit.

“You should talk to her.”

“She made it very clear that she wants to be left alone,” Cullen replied, shaking his head as Mia walked up next to him.

“She had a rough night. She needs you.”

“She doesn’t.”

His sister rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Cullen, she knows you would never harm her. Right now, she needs to know she’s safe, more than ever. She needs to know you’re there for her.”

Cullen sighed and felt a prickle in the back of his neck. Like a breath, or a whisper, words mumbled so low and so far, they could be in the back of his mind, his subconscious, telling him the truth.

_She needs you. She is scared, and she wants to be held. You are scared because you don’t know how you can help. She does not need grand gestures. She needs you to be there._

“Fine... I’ll... I’ll talk to her...”

He left Mia’s side, well aware of the smirk on his sister’s lips, and crossed to his tent. He nodded to the guard watching the tent and the man nodded back before he left, returning to his own tent. Cullen hesitated a moment outside the tent before he parted the entrance and stepped inside. She sat on her bedroll, knees pulled up and arms crossed, resting on them, and she was facing the entrance. He assumed she had seen his shadow lingering outside for a while.

He cleared his throat.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she replied. Cullen felt his chest clench and felt sweat trickle down in the back of his neck. Intuitively, his hand came up to rub the back of his head, his neck, his hair, trying to look at anything but the girl cowering on the floor.

“Um... we found the Inquisition scouts. They’re in camp now, they’re getting food and proper clothes and they should be fine.”

“Good...” she replied. Her voice was flat, her monosyllabic answers off-putting coming from a girl who had literally been unable to stay quiet for all the time he knew her now.

“We were considering delivering them to the Inquisition personally. Their base in Haven is on our way to the hold anyways.”

“That’d be nice...”

He stood there like a fool and he knew it. This would not get them anywhere, she would not talk about what had happened unless confronted. And no matter how scared he was to do just that, because he might frighten her further away than she was right now, he had to.

“Róisín, look at me.”    

His voice made her head snap up and her blue eyes cut through him. They cut. They were steel now, her weapons in the dark, her sword and shield, protecting her from anything that might come through that entrance, even if it was him.

“What?”

“I need you to tell me that you will be alright.”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“Yes, you keep saying that, I don’t think you know what the word means. What happened today...”

“Was it the truth?”

He looked at her confused. There was silence between them for a long moment, then he shook his head.

“Was what the truth?”

“What he said.”

She looked away again and he was almost convinced there were tears in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around her knees, pulled them closer. “He said... any thane in his right mind would have taken advantage of me. Of a... of a gift like me.”

Cullen sat down. That was not a conversation he could have like this. He shrugged out of his heavy fur and sat opposite her, with enough distance to not make her feel threatened or crowded. And he sat there, wringing for words.

He chose to explain.

“In many... in many Almarri traditions there is such a thing as Stealing the Bride. It is an ancient tradition and law by which a man picks the woman he wishes to wed, steals her from her mother’s home, and beds her. The two will thereby be bound by marriage and the woman will belong to the man’s hold. It has been that way for centuries. In many clans the tradition of Stealing the Bride is... more of a formality. Often it is agreed beforehand between the two families, it is sometimes even considered fun. I have seen many such Stealings, many involved lots of giggling and crude jokes. Of course, that is not always the case. It also happens that a man sees a woman he desires and he simply takes her for himself. He kidnaps her from her home, rapes her, and once the deed is done, she has no choice but to stay with him, her family has no longer the right to demand her returned. It is archaic, it is frowned upon in many of our tribes today, and if a man is caught attempting to steal an unwilling bride in such a way, he can be lucky if he is only severely beaten, but he is much more likely to end up dead. If he is caught, but the bride was willing, he usually gets away. If he was caught and the bride was _unwilling_... well. You saw that tonight. So... what I am trying to explain is... yes. Yes, what he described to you _does_ happen. Had he... had he claimed you as his tonight... there would have been nothing I could have done. Not by our laws at least.”

Her hand covered her lips now, fingers trembling and there were tears in her eyes, he was certain this time.

“He could have done whatever he wanted then...”

“But he didn’t. You are not his. You are free, no one will harm you.”

“You keep saying that, I don’t think _you_ know what that means,” she grumbled. And he inevitably smiled. Now that was the Róisín he remembered, talking back, snapping.

“He’s never going to touch you again. No one is _ever_ going to touch you again, not after this. People will talk about this, any others who thought about trying will know that you are protected.”

“What happens if you are not there next time?”

He shook his head.

“I wasn’t there tonight. The Lady watched over you, she will not let harm come to you. She watches over you. And if you’ll let me... so will I.”

She looked up, looked at him puzzled and intrigued. Then she drew a deep breath.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I what?”

“Claim me.”

He gasped, cleared his throat, sweat on his brow. This was getting out of hand. “I had no hold, no family, no protection. I was just a girl you found in a ruin who happened to be touched by the Goddess. You could have claimed me, no one would have contested. Why didn’t you.”

“I don’t believe in these traditions. I told you, most contemporary tribes frown upon the Stealing of the Bride. It’s not our way. It’s not _my_ way. You will never have to fear me, I will never force myself on you. If I bed you, Róisín Trevelyan... It will be because you chose me.”

Her eyes were on him, wide and clear, and for a moment they sat in complete silence. Eyes locked, her lips slightly parted as if she had wanted to respond but lost her words on the way, and there it was again. That moment they had shared, seemingly forever ago, seemingly in another life. It made him want to lean in and seal those lips with his, but that would completely defy the point of his sincere speech.

How had he gotten this close? How had he let her draw him in so deep? He was on one knee, leaning towards her and his hands had frozen just inches away from her face. Pink lips, so sweet, so soft. And he could not. He could not move closer, afraid of breaking – maybe her, maybe himself. But he was not the one who had to make that decision. She was. And so all he did was lean close enough to brush his lips over her temple, just once, just to know how her skin felt against his lips.

He pulled away immediately, unfulfilled, but the smile she granted was worth it. She chuckled a little, a soft blush on her cheeks when she lowered her gaze, lips in a small smile.

“You’re very confident that will happen.”

“One might say I am very hopeful that will happen,” he admitted, returning the smile. “Now. Will you tell me what happened earlier? In the marshes?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The demon dragged you away. And ever since, you were... not yourself.”

She sat quietly for a long while and he watched as she rubbed her wrists, paint crumbling off her skin. He assumed it was nerves, but after a while, she raised her arms and presented the scars he had noticed there back when he had put that very paint on her.

“Do you know what these are?”

“They... look like scars from a blood ritual. Some of our shamans have them.”

“We call it blood magic. And it is very, very frowned upon in the Circle of Magi. Blood mages... are seen as filth, as monsters, as dangerous. Blood mages kick the door open for demons to possess them, turn them into abominations. It is all too easy to fall for temptation, they say. After… after my Circle fell and me and the few other survivors fled… we were on the run from Templars for months. And… as our situation became more dire… we turned to Blood Magic. All of us. It made life easier. The power we got from it… it let us protect each other. Or so we thought. It’s what we told ourselves, that we needed it to be safe. But in the end… one after the other fell to possession. I… watched one of my oldest, dearest friends turn into an abomination. The images still haunt me. The thought that at any moment, I could turn into a monster like that… it made me stop. I swore to myself I would never draw my own blood again for power, that I would never again use my magic in such a way. But… every time I am afraid… it sings to me… how easy it would be to fight my fears if only I tapped into that power again. And I am afraid if I give in… I… I will…”

Her words faltered, and Cullen moved closer still. He took her hand between his, thumb gently caressing the scars on her wrist. He heard a quiet sob, but did not look up from her hand. “Cullen… if I ever… if I turn into one of these creatures… promise me something.”

“I won’t kill you, Róisín. You cannot ask this of me.”

“Cullen, if I turn into an abomination, that won’t be me anymore. There won’t be anything left of me.”

He shook his head and brought the scarred wrist to his lips.

“It won’t happen. I won’t let it happen. I said I’d protect you. If I have to, I’ll protect you from yourself.”

There was a brief hesitation, before he felt her hand on his cheek.

“Thank you. But… if I can’t be saved…”

“If there is nothing else I can do, if you are ever truly lost… I will kill you.”

“Swear it.”

He cringed. Mia had taught her well. She clearly knew that a thane’s oath was binding, that if he swore to her, he could not go back on his word without gravely insulting the Gods. He held her hand closer, teeth gritted together. But he forced it out anyways. Because he owed her that much.

“I swear by the Lady and the Father… that should you succumb to your fear and turn into a monster… I will strike you down with my own blade.”

She nodded.

“Thank you.”

“Get some rest now. You need it.”

He wanted to get up, but her hand held onto his.

“Please… can you stay here with me and... just... hold me? I… don’t want to be alone…”

_She needs you to hold her._

Had he just imagined that, or...

He nodded reluctantly. By the Gods he was not sure if he would be strong enough to lie next to her all night. But he stayed anyways. He joined her on her bedroll, his arms wrapped around her and her back pressed against his chest. He stroked her hair as she fell asleep and lay by her side as she slept.


	9. When in Haven

They were all too happy to leave behind the Fallow Mire. Travelling back north from Hargrave Keep, they left behind the bog, the plague-wrecked village of Fisher’s End and finally the marshes altogether. And they did not travel alone. A large number of the Avvar who had once been part of The Hand of Korth’s hold had joined them. The numbers of their hold had very nearly doubled from when they had first arrived in the marshes.

Past the village of Honnleath, they returned back into the Frostback Mountains. Ros would have never thought she would admit it, but she was relieved to be back in the clear, crisp, cold mountain air.

Two weeks out of the Mire, the Breach became visible in the sky, whirling and angry green. It made itself known by sending pain through the cut on her hand and Ros often cursed under her breath. The closer they came, the worse it got. Until finally, Haven appeared in the valley below. Their travelling company came to a halt on the nearest plateau, where they set up their tents and barely a handful of them would escort the scouts back into the Andrastian town. Ros, Cullen, Mia, and the augur.

They descended from the mountains and were met soon by uniformed scouts of the Inquisition. At first with their weapons drawn.

“What business brings you to Ha… Harding? Is that… is that you?”

“It certainly is,” head scout Harding said as she stepped forward. The young dwarven woman had recovered well from their captivity, as had most of the other scouts. Their injuries had been treated, they had been given warm clothes by the Avvar, and they had regained health from eating well again.

“The Spymaster said your bird didn’t come back… we assumed you were…”

“Dead. I very nearly was. These brave Avvar saved us all from captivity in the Fallow Mire, and saw that we made it back here safely,” Harding explained.

“The Spymaster will want to see you. All of you.”

The scouts lowered their weapons and invited the group to follow them. While some stayed behind to keep their watch, a number of them accompanied the group on their way to Haven. Soon, they reached the paved road of pilgrimage, the very same road Ros had taken when she first arrived in Haven, with her fellow mages, on their way to the conclave.

The feeling made her hesitate a moment. Somehow, she had found her way here again, a development she had not thought possible. Yet here they were.

Haven was a small village, now extended with many tents and campsites. There were a number of mages about, but far more she saw the familiar armour of the Templar order. It intuitively made her more closer to Cullen.

“There is an… awful lot of Templar’s about…” she said.

“They are the ones we could save at Therinfall Redoubt,” one of the scouts said.

“Save?” Ros asked confused. The scout nodded.

“The Templar order has been severely corrupted. Many have been introduced to a rare form of lyrium, highly addictive and very dangerous in its consequences. It’s the same lyrium that drove the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall mad in the end. Many Templars have been corrupted by it. We saved as many as we could but many more have been lost. Templars, as well as Seekers.”

Ros felt a knot form in her stomach.

“My… my older brother was a Templar. Knight-Lieutenant Rheon Trevelyan. He was stationed at Therinfall Redoubt… he…”

She could taste bile at the thought, breathing suddenly became more difficult. What if her brother… after everything that had happened, after saving her life and that of everyone who had escaped Ostwick’s Circle with her, after escaping a gruesome fate by not participating in the conclave, had he met the Maker in such a cruel way?

“I am sorry… I don’t know if he survived. Talk to their Knight-Captain, he will know. But first you should talk to the leaders. The Skymaster will be pleased to hear that you saved her scouts. And Seeker Pentaghast has spoken very highly of you, despite your unexplained disappearance in the Hinterlands.”

The scouts led them through the large main gates of Haven. They climbed up stone steps and entered the village. There were a number of simple stone houses, a merchant position just behind the gates, then more steps led up to the inner part of town. Statues of Andraste in the stages of her life decorated the village and everything was glaced with a fine layer of dusty snow, making it all glitter in an almost romantic way. Ros spotted the first familiar face as they climbed the second set of steps. Varric Tethras sat by a small fire, scribbling with a quill in a notebook. He looked up when he noticed the approaching party and a grin appeared on his lips.

“Well, if it isn’t my biggest fan,” he greeted. Ros sighed relieved.

“Varric!”

“Heard you were coming.”

“How did you…?”

“The Spymaster has ears all over the valley,” Varric said and nodded to a tent a little elevated from their position, on what probably had once been a market square, before the Inquisition had taken over the town.

“Oi! That the girl with the glowy bits?”

Varric glanced over his shoulder. A blonde elf was leaning out of the window of what smelled and sounded like a tavern. “Everyone’s talking about ya. Says y’are touched by some God an’everything.”

“Varric?” Ros asked perplexed and looked back at Varric. The dwarf simply shrugged.

“Long story. Might want to talk to the Seeker about that. Trust me, there was a lot of yelling about you here the past weeks. A _lot_ of yelling.”

“Where’s Cassandra?”

“The Chantry, with the rest of the leaders,” Varric explained with a nod towards the building towering over the rest of the town. The Chantry was clearly the largest building, solidly built to last, and decorated with a large, golden sun wheel over the roof, symbolising the holy fire. Ros patted the dwarf on the shoulder.

“Thanks, Varric.”

“Anytime.”

They left the dwarf to his writing and made their way up towards the square outside the Chantry.

On their way, Cullen caught up with her, walked by her side for a moment before he spoke.

“You never told me about your brother…”

“I… it never came up…” she whispered, embarrassed to admit it was true. She had not really told him anything about her, which made his trust in her all the more surprising. He knew nothing about her. Yet, in a way, he knew everything. “He’s a little older than me, and he was a Templar. When my Circle fell, he warned me and a few other mages that there would be a massacre. He helped us escape. Afterwards, he was sent to Therinfall Redoubt, to answer for his insubordination. I… if he died there… if he’s dead because of me…”

“We’ll find out what happened to him,” Cullen said immediately and sincerely. Ros nodded quietly. She appreciated it, but she was not sure if she wanted to find out what had happened. She was not sure if she could face the knowledge that her brother had died because he had tried to protect her.

They entered the Chantry. The building was warm inside, heated up by many fires that were symbolic as well as practical, illuminating beautiful stone carvings of Andraste. The Chantry in Haven was considered one of the most holy placed of Thedas because this was the final resting place of Andraste. Her disciples had carried her ashes on their pilgrimage past this town, rested in this Chantry and then built the Temple of Sacred Ashes in the mountains, where her ashes were then kept, hidden for centuries until they had been recovered during the Fifth Blight by the Hero of Ferelden and her companions. The Chantry Scholar who had assisted them in their efforts to recover the ashes had then taken it upon himself to share the knowledge with the world and had made Haven and the Temple a destination for pilgrims from all across the continent, to pay their respects to the prophetess.

Ros remembered when she had climbed that mountain with her companions, when they had laid eyes upon the Temple for the first time. It had humbled her, to see the snow covered building. She had hoped to find a moment for herself, to pray in the chamber of the ashes. But she never even got to see them. Now they were gone forever.

As they entered, they caught the attention of Chantry sisters in the building. They were watched attentively and with confused mumbles. What were the Avvar doing here? In a Chantry, at a time like this?

Scout Harding led them only to a door at the end of the main hall of the gloomy building.

“They should be in there, probably they are waiting for you. Thank you again for saving us, but this is generally as far as we go,” she said. Ros nodded.

“Thank you,” she said, then turned to Cullen. “Will you… come with me?”

“Anywhere you ask me to.”

The door opened into a chamber lit by two fires. They cast diffuse shadows over the room, of the people inside, and of the large table in the heart of the room. The table was the first one noticed upon entry. Thick, sturdy wood, and the plate completely covered by a large, shockingly intricate map of Thedas. A dagger had pierced through the fine paper and the first glance told Ros that the dagger was marking Therinfall Redoubt in the East of Ferelden. Again, it coiled her stomach. There were more markers placed on the map, spread all over Ferelden and Orlais, and even two in the Free Marches. Starkhaven and Kirkwall: At war with each other since the Chantry of Kirkwall exploded and Grand Cleric Elthina died. Prince Sepastian Vael of Starkhaven demanded the head of the apostate who was responsible for the destruction of the Chantry, Vicountess Ariadne Hawke – until the day she mysteriously vanished – insisted that Kirkwall was the wounded party, so she would decide the apostate’s fate and no one else.

Around the table waited three women, all had turned towards her and Cullen now.

One was Cassandra, in her formal Seeker armour now, recognisable by the large Seeker eye embossed on the breastplate. The other two present had to be the leaders Varric and Harding had spoken of.

First, there was a short young woman dressed in the finest silks that admittedly made Ros sigh a little. She missed the feeling of silk on her skin, missed fine fabric and elegantly cut robes. The bright golden colour looked charming on the slightly tan young woman with the thick, dark hair in an elaborate updo. She carried a clipboard with an enchanted candle and had a beautiful quill in the other hand. The golden tip was adorned with an intricate design that was only produced in Antiva.

And second, a woman who had almost completely melted into the shadows by standing at the side of the fireplace, outside the light. She had her hair covered by a large, dark hood, only revealing a glimpse of bright red hair and casting shadows on her face so Ros could barely even see her lips. But she had the symbol of the Chantry on a clasp closing the cloak she wore.

“Welcome to Haven,” the woman in silks greeted with a smile – and with the antivan accent Ros had expected to hear.

“We heard you brought our missing scouts back safely. We owe you for that. It doesn’t explain why you just disappeared in the Hinterlands, but it will do,” Cassandra said with a shrug as she came closer and put a hand on Ros arm. It made her smile. Only for a moment, before Cullen cut between. Cassandra had a hand on her sword, as did the Templar in the room, as did Cullen. “Who’s your… companion?”

“This is Cullen Lion’s Bane, thane of the Avvar hold of these mountains. You met his siblings, Mia and Branson. Cullen is the one who saved me, and protected me for the past weeks.”

“I see,” Cassandra said. She let go of her sword, then proceeded to introduce the girl in silks and the woman in the shadows. “This is the Lady Josephine Montilyet of Antiva, our chief diplomat. And Sister Leliana, the Nightingale, our Spymaster.”

That name was familiar. Rose glanced over at the woman in the shadows. The Nightingale, the Left Hand of the Divine, one of the brave former companions to the Hero of Ferelden. And all eyes were still on Ros. She cleared her throat nervously.

“Um… Varric said there was a lot of yelling about me?”

Cassandra rolled her eyes.

“Chatty dwarf, that one…” the Nightingale said, with nothing betraying her emotions.

“We were trying to find sense in your existence. You survived the conclave, and you possess the ability to undo the destruction caused by the Breach. Many believe… you were sent by Andraste.”

Cullen laughed a weak laugh.

“Of course they do.”

“Is it any more logical that she was blessed by _your_ God than it is that she was blessed by our prophetess?” Cassandra asked coolly.

“First your people prosecute her and call her responsible for the explosion at your temple and suddenly she’s _your_ chosen one?” Cullen replied.

“Few can witness what we have witnessed in the Hinterlands and not believe. It is not their fault for attributing her to the faith they know, instead of to a deity they have no connection to,” Cassandra countered.

“I will not let you ignore my people and our part in this in favour of your Chantry!” Cullen protested. Ros felt torn. She knew exactly how he had to feel, knew of the Chantry’s tendency to ignore and destroy everything that was different. They had nearly wiped out the elvhen culture and belief in the creators, and by the simple fact that Andraste had once been Almarri and had then become the Bride of the Maker, the Chantry successfully erased their origin in contemporary lore. And now, they were doing the same again. To her. Claimed she was Andraste’s chosen, rather than the Lady of the Sky, ignoring the people who had protected her along the way.

And as much as she wanted to have everything return to normal again, she could not. It felt wrong to just ignore the kindness Cullen and his tribe had shown her when, she had no doubt, the Chantry would have sooner treated her as a prisoner, a delinquent, a threat instead of welcoming her with open arms.

“Enough!” she finally interrupted the two bickering warriors. She raised her marked hand. “My hand, my decision!”

They fell silent, Cassandra awkwardly fumbling with her sword.

“Then what is your decision? Marked by the Lady or Herald of Andraste?”

“Neither!” Ros declared. “I don’t know what happened to me and before I do, I will make no claims either way.”

Cullen stared at her, wounded. Clearly.

“Really? After everything we’ve been through?”

“I never agreed or disagreed to your claims about being marked by the Lady. How could I? How could I presume to know your Lady’s will? Would that not be more insulting to your people than anything else?” she protested, then turned to Cassandra. “And how could I possibly claim to be blessed by Andraste? I will make no such claims until I know _exactly_ where I got this mark!”

The group stood in silence for a long time, until Josephine Montilyet stepped forward.

“I think that is possibly the wisest strategy for now. Until the Breach is closed and we have clarity on what really happened at the conclave, we should make no definitive statement one way or another. It will still allow us to secure support from Andrastian benefactors. I would imagine your family would be very inclined to support the Inquisition if they were to learn of your ‘calling’.”

Ros laughed.

“If you tell my family Andraste _may_ have chosen me as her Herald, you’ll have to beg them to please stop throwing their sovereigns at you.”

“This is exactly what we need. The Inquisition needs resources and support, with the Chantry having denounced us.”

“The Chantry denounced you? Why?” Ros asked perplexed.

“Because they are scared fools who try to tell themselves the hole in the sky is no threat. Because we supported you and your effort to close the rifts and they now say we are heretics for supporting a mage who claims Godhood,” Cassandra explained.

“Which, obviously, I don’t,” Ros said, rolling her eyes. Cullen shook his head.

“Your Chantry is a strange institution…” he mumbled. She nodded in agreement. Maker knew she believed in the Maker and the Chant of Light, but the Chantry in itself was flawed and she had no illusions about that.

“Wasn’t the Inquisition called to life by the Divine herself? And it is led by her Left and Right Hand? How can they still deny you?”

“Many things have changed since the conclave. You would not know about them, since you were with these… with the Avvar. But safe to say this is not the state Justinia would have liked to leave the world in…” Cassandra said.

Josephine came around the table, tapping her quill on the paper.

“You are welcome to stay in Haven, all of you. We are trying to figure out a way to seal the Breach and having you present will boost not only moral but also give us greater chance at succeeding.”

“Is that why the Templar’s are here?” Ros inquired. Josephine nodded.

“After… a long debate... We have concluded that using the Templars to suppress the magic of the Breach is as good an approach as any to healing the sky. With you here… we might be able to close it altogether, if you work with the Templars.”

“I wish to talk to the Templar leader first. I am looking for news of my brother. He was stationed at Therinfall Redoubt…”

She noticed the alarmed glance between Cassandra and Leliana and she only grew more and more certain. _Rheon was dead_. Whatever had transpired at that fortress, the chances of him having survived it unharmed were dwindling.

“I’ll send for the Knight-Captain. He will know of your brother’s fate,” Cassandra declared and with a nod to her fellow leaders, she left the room.

“There is a vacant building near the town gate. Feel free to use it as your own, if you wish,” Josephine Montilyet invited her with a smile. Ros hesitated and glance from her up to Cullen by her side. And she shook her head.

“Thank you. But… I’d rather return to the camp outside Haven…”

“Oh… well… very well. We’ll arrange for the Knight-Captain to meet you there then. And we can settle our plans for the Breach tomorrow.”

Ros nodded.

“Thank you, Lady Montilyet.”

“Please, Josephine will do just fine.”

And with these words, they left the council chamber. Once the door closed behind them, Cullen turned towards her.

“I… must admit I am surprised you chose to stay at camp, rather than… a proper bed and a warm home?”

Ros smiled shyly.

“I… would quite miss having you there…” she admitted with a blush. At this point, she could not even deny that anymore. She would miss falling asleep next to him, with the knowledge that he was watching over her, protecting her. She slept better knowing that, better than she had ever since she had fled the Ostwick Circle. The thought of lying in a stone house, on a proper bed, not hearing his steady breath nearby, now seemed absurd. But then she gasped. “O-of course if you’d rather I stay and leave your tent for you, I’d understand! I was taking up your space, that was so very inconsiderate of me, I will tell Josephine right away and-”

“Ros,” he interrupted, a hand on her cheek and then the other, made her face him. She was acutely aware of how hot her cheeks were under his cool hands. “You are welcome in my camp and in my tent for as long as you wish. You are one of us, remember? No matter what they say.”

She smiled and nodded, had to glance away from his golden eyes for fear of being lured in by them, lured into a kiss. She could hardly think of anything else when their eyes met. Only of his lips. Only of his words. _‘If I bed you, it will be because you chose me’_. Maker’s breath, she would choose him over and over and over if she just had the courage.

“Shall we go home then?” she asked carefully. He nodded and together, they made their way back to camp. 

* * *

 

It was almost sundown when a visitor appeared in the Avvar camp outside of Haven. He stuck out like a sore thumb, the young man in full Templar armour, his helmet tucked under one arm. He walked proudly and determined and his dark skin and features had something very noble to him.

“I am here to speak to the Lady Róisín Trevelyan,” he declared when he reached the heart of the camp. Ros joined Cullen by his seat near the fire, stood to meet the Templar who approached them. He bowed. “MyLady. I am Ser Delrin Barris, Knight-Captain of Therinfall Redoubt, second son of Bann Jevrin Barris,” he introduced himself.

It made Cullen look up behind her.

“Barris… of the blood of Kenem Barris?” he asked. Ros glanced back at him surprised but all she found was grim, dull anger.

“My ancestor, yes,” Ser Barris confirmed. Cullen growled.

“Kenem Barris and his men drove our hold from the shores of Lake Calenhad, three ages ago.”

“But surely we can’t blame Ser Barris for that,” Ros added with a smile, hoping to relieve the tension. With little success.

“That depends…”

She felt Cullen tense next to her and she put a hand on his arm, squeezing a little until she felt him relax.

“Ser Barris has come as a friend. Please, Ser Barris. Do you… have any word of my brother’s fate?”

The Templar looked from the angry Avvar to her. He watched her intently for a moment, before he looked away as if he could not bear it.

“Your… your brother has fallen. Bravely. Fighting back against the demons that had overrun our fortress. He has proven his devotion to Andraste and the Maker and has found peace. I… know this is not the news you wished to hear, MyLady, and I am deeply sorry for your loss. But know that your brother died a hero.”

Ros felt something squeeze around her throat, driving tears burning into her eyes. She swallowed hard, forced her lips to a smile and nodded.

“Thank you, Ser Barris. I… appreciate you telling me.”

He had his teeth gritted as he bowed again, as if delivering this message to her had truly hurt him.

“The Lady Cassandra requests your presence in Haven tomorrow at dawn, to join our efforts to seal the Breach once and for all.”

“Tell her I will gladly offer my help,” Ros confirmed with a nod. Ser Barris bowed once more, hesitated a moment, then turned and left.

Ros stood still as a statue, a hand still on Cullen’s arm and only when his hand covered her own did she feel the tremble in her own fingers. She drew in a deep breath and tried to wipe away the tears clouding her vision.

“Ros…”

“I… I have to… I have to write a letter. Our… our parents need to know… Rheon… was always their favourite. How could he not, he was a delight… I have to tell them… They have to be… told…”

“It can wait. They will be told, don’t worry.”

“I… I… need… a moment alone…”

“Of course.”

He let go of her hand and let her walk away. She turned and left his side, not returning to the tent but instead wandering around their camp. She had a hand clasped to her stomach as she drew in deep breaths, held them a moment, then let them out of her lungs, tried to focus on only her breath, not on the thought of her brother’s death. She watched the children play, the crafters creating their jewellery, their weapons, their armour. Yet all she could think about was that nothing would ever be alright again. All her hope of having her old life back was shattered by the fact that her brother was gone. Rheon had been her pillar of strength. As a child, in the Circle, he had always been there for her. Now he was no more.

Her feet took her to the shaman’s tent, where she bumped into – of all the people – the one Lion’s Bane sibling that did not like her. Rosalie had just stepped out and met her on eye level, both surprised.

“Oh… you…” the blonde said grimly.

“Sorry, I didn’t… sorry…” Ros turned away, hoped she could hide how upset she was. Because the last thing she needed was Rosalie to see her weak and crying.

“Hey!” the blonde called. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you… are you _crying_?”

“No!” Ros snapped back at her and marched away. No, really, she did not feel ready to argue with the young shaman about her tears. She heard the blonde huff behind her and then heard quick steps catch up with her.

“Hey! Wait! I… I heard about your brother…”

Ros froze to the spot. She did not turn around, tried to tell from the sound of the other woman’s voice if she was going to make fun of her or take her serious. But before she could make her estimation, Rosalie put a hand on her arm. “I… I’m sorry…? I… I know we don’t really… get along much. But… I have brother’s too. And if I’d lose one of them… I’d be devastated.”

Ros glanced at the blonde, admittedly surprised to hear sympathy in her voice.

“Thanks…?” she said reluctantly. Rosalie huffed and pulled her into an awkward hug. So awkward Ros had to smile for the silliness of it all. They parted and stood, both a little lost, until Rosalie brushed her blonde curls behind her ears and looked up.

“So… tell me about him? Your brother, I mean. What was he like?”

Ros smiled.

“He… was the kind of brother that made you believe everything was possible,” she began. Rosalie smiled and pulled her down to sit on two fallen logs. And Ros told of Rheon, and Rosalie listened. And it may not have been what she had expected, but it helped. Of all the possible shoulders she thought she would find comfort, this had been the least expected. And strangely, she felt like this was the only shoulder that would help. So they sat, for a good two hours, just the two of them. Once, she was sure she saw Cullen, looking for either of them. But when he saw them together, he retreated, left them to their long talk. He never mentioned it when she later returned to the tent, and he never mentioned her brother, either, because Rosalie had claimed that as their connection, and they kept it that way.


	10. In Your Heart Shall Burn

It was the first time she saw it up close. The Breach in the sky, and the destruction of the Temple of Sacred Ashes beneath it. As they approached the ruins, the sounds of the mountains seemed to die away. No birds, not even the wind could be heard anymore up here.

They came in great numbers. Hundreds of Templars, led by Ser Barris and Seeker Cassandra. Ros, with Cullen and a group of the finest Avvar warriors and hunters, to keep any spirits off their back. The augur accompanied them, as did Solas, the elvhen mage and ‘Fade expert’. When they reached the front hall of the Temple, Ros was overwhelmed by the stench of decay and death up here. Even after all this time, not all fires had fully cooled off, embers still glimmering underneath black molten stone. There were signs of struggles here, of battles no doubt fought after the conclave. But mostly, everything seemed still and undisturbed, almost peaceful.

“That’s where we found you,” Cullen said and pointed towards what had to be the front entrance of the Temple, judging from the stone pillars that supported the walls akin to a gate.

“Do you remember anything at all?” Cassandra asked, as Ros walked closer to that spot where she had been found. And Maker, she tried. She tried to remember… but everything was blurry and hazy, like a dream. She shook her head.

“No… nothing… I don’t… remember anything…”

She hissed when the Breach suddenly started glowing brighter, dipping the temple in bright green, fighting the rising sun’s golden light. Her cut was bursting with pain.

“We have no time to waste. Let’s seal this Breach, once and for all,” Solas said grimly. Ros nodded, she could not wait for this damned Breach to close and the cut to hopefully disappear with it for good.

The group moved through the fallen gates into the Temple. The crumbled halls were so still they could hear the whispers from the Fade. She walked ahead, closely followed by Cullen and Cassandra.

In the heart of the hall stood an enormous statue, distorted from the explosion, with crystals growing out of it, black and green and glowing eerily. But the statue... was undoubtedly Andraste. Ros stopped in her tracks, headed to the edge of the balcony they were standing on, overlooking the Temple’s inner chambers now that the walls had collapsed.

“I... I’ve been here before...” she whispered.

“For the conclave? No?” Cassandra asked.

“Yes. No! I... that statue. I saw it... I don’t remember going in there but... I remember this room. I remember this!”

Ros rushed ahead. She heard Cullen call her name, heard him follow but she did not stop. She rushed around the balcony, climbed over debris, until she found a way down into the main chamber. Green lights were melting in the sky, the Breach now so close she could almost touch it. The whispers were almost deafening here, so intense they made the air vibrate around her. Still, they were unintelligible. Until…

_“Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice!”_

A voice echoed through the ruins of the Temple. A voice she had heard before. In that dream she had, weeks ago. The monstrous shadow she had seen in front of Andraste’s statue.

Here, she realised. That had been here. What she had dreamt had happened here, in this room, in this very spot. It had been a memory. A subconscious, blurry memory of what had happened to her, perhaps an answer to what had caused the explosion.

She had been here before. She could see it, clear as day now. In the corner of her eye she noticed Cullen and Cassandra climb down to join her. But she saw another figure move, hazy, blurry, but she recognised her, like looking at a mirror. She knew it was her, even though something was off.

_“What’s going on here?!”_ she, or rather her reflection, called out.

“What is this?” Ros asked towards Solas as he approached the scene with curiosity.

“An echo, a memory trapped in the Fade. Your memory, perhaps. It reacted to your presence here and bleeds through from the Fade now,” the elf replied calmly.

_“Please! Help me!”_

The woman’s voice. Ros remembered her from the dream as well, and when she looked up now, the two figures were floating above them, shadows of a memory. A large darkness, red eyes glowing in the dark, spindly long fingers reaching for the woman. And the woman was glowing white, a bright, beautiful light. Cassandra stepped up with a gasp.

“That… that was Divine Justinia’s voice! She was calling to you for help!”

“I don’t remember any of this!” Ros protested.

The shadow figure turned, its glowing eyes piercing through her. Its long fingers pointed at her reflection.

_“We have an intruder. Kill the girl!”_

The sound of blades drawn. And with a pulse of the Breach, the memory collapsed, washed away in an instant. Ros gasped, caught her left wrist to counter the pain of her mark. The pain was excruciating, creeping through her arm, making breathing painful, forcing her to her knees. She could feel the skin of her palm tear, could feel the mark grow. A sob escaped her. She could feel that green cut suck the life out of her.

“We have to do something! It’s killing her!” Cullen roared as he stormed towards her. He went to his knees by her side, an arm around her shoulders, the other hand stroked her hair. Protective, gentle.

“Get the Templars in position. We can discuss what we saw later, first we need to close the Breach!” Solas agreed. Ser Barris hesitated a moment, then he nodded. He drew his sword and turned away.

“Men! Take up positions all around the central chamber! On the balcony and on this level! I want every Templar with a clear line of sight of the Breach! Move!!” the Knight-Captain ordered. Under his command, the Templars scattered and took up their positions as ordered. The noises of clanking armour barely came through to Ros, still cowering on the floor, leaning against Cullen. Only when the last Templar was in position throughout the blackened bones of the Temple, Solas came to her side.

“Now it is up to you,” the elf said. Ros nodded weakly. Her hand still burned, glowing brighter and sharper than it ever had before. Cullen helped her to her feet and held onto her arm until she stepped away from him and towards the massive rift connecting to the Breach in the sky. Her right hand extended back to him, though her eyes were focused on the Breach. She felt his hand on hers, then only their fingertips touching and then he was gone.

Ros stood alone under the Breach, stood in the eye of the green storm. Somewhere distant, she heard Solas yelling a command to the Templars, but it hardly mattered to her now. She closed her eyes, could feel the energy of the Breach wash over her. It was powerful, more powerful than she could have ever imagined. But it was also calm. Like nothing mattered in the stillness at the heart of it all. In this divine quiet, she considered. What if she had been given this mark by the Avvar Goddess of the sky? What if she had been touched by Andraste? What did it all mean?

She raised her hand slowly. Lightning started cracking around her, electrifying the air with the power of the Breach. And as the magic increased, the Templars focused their own power. Bright flames surrounded her, holy fire roaring all around, taming the surging energy of the Breach that was shooting through her like it tried to tear her apart. The mark on her hand reacted, connecting with the largest rift. Pushing and pulling. Her feet lost touch with the ground. She remembered…

_She remembered reaching out. She remembered a woman stand high above her, a light in an endless darkness._

_“Take my hand!” she yelled. And Ros reached for her, green light surrounding them pulling her back into the darkness, trying to keep her there. She remembered… eyes. Too many eyes, red eyes in the darkness, a growling beast._

It collapsed. With a roaring explosion, blasting across the sky, the Breach collapsed. Ros gasped when the connection with her mark fell apart with it and she was tossed backwards by the force of magic colliding with holy fire. She remembered flying, then falling, then blackness.

 

The explosion forced all of them back. The bright light filled the sky for a heartbeat or two, and then it was gone. It was all gone. The massive rift above the Temple, and the whirling Breach in the sky. Both had collapsed for good. The clouds above them where still in turmoil, lightning cracking between them, but the sky seemed… back to its old nature. Back to the way it was supposed to be. The ill, green light had vanished.

It took him a moment to shake off the explosion. The strain on his eardrums that forced out all sounds around him and the whirling flashes of colour in his eyes still remained after the initial impact had passed. Cullen got to his feet, shook off the dust and ashes and then his eyes searched their surroundings. He spotted Ros, on her hands and knees, just regaining her consciousness, shaking off her own dizzy spell.

He stumbled to his feet, still a little out of balance from his ears suffering under the pressure of the magical explosion. But he had to get to her, and nothing would stop him. He was first to reach her, put a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you…”

“I am. I’m alright,” she replied, without letting him finish his question. Her hand came to rest on his on her shoulder and she nodded quietly.

“It is done. The Breach is closed!” Cassandra called out, pointing at the sky that was now beginning to calm. The lightning had ceased and the clouds were beginning to retreat. Cullen hardly cared. He cared only for the woman trying to get on her feet with his help. She stumbled, knees still weak, and he offered himself to support her. She gladly accepted. He held her close, helped her walk back to the rest of their group, to Cassandra and Solas and the augur. The elderly shaman was watching the sky and finally she nodded.

“The Lady is appeased.”

Cullen nodded, then took Róisín’s left. The mark was still there, a scar in her palm with the faintest green glow underneath the skin. But it had lost the anger, the aggressive, sharp edges he had noticed there before. It was not fully gone yet, but he believed it would heal.

“Are you in pain?” he asked softly, caressing the scar with his fingertips. She shook her head with a smile.

“No. It’s… the pain is gone. I can still feel the magic of it under my skin, but it stopped hurting…”

He closed his hand over hers and returned her smile. And as he did, the smile on her lips faltered. She drew in a breath, then another. “Cullen, I…” she began, like she so often did, and she never finished, and she never said what he hoped to hear. He held her hand against his chest, the other arm still wrapped around her, holding her close and he leaned closer still. Her eyes were locked in his and when their foreheads brushed, he stilled, and waited, and hoped for her to close the distance. He felt her trembling breath, her hand squeeze his in return and he was almost entirely certain she was rising to her tiptoes. Her nose brushed against his and he closed his eyes, only inches away from the kiss he had hoped to share with her for weeks now.

But he felt her pull away and when he opened his eyes, she was looking away, her lower lip pulled between her teeth and her cheeks pink. He loosened his hold on her and let go of the marked hand. And he could not look at her. Had he misinterpreted? Did she not feel as he did?

“We should return to Haven,” he said, after he cleared his throat.

“We should. And then you have some explaining to do,” Cassandra said, wagging a finger in Róisín’s face. She nodded, and the group made their return to Haven.   

* * *

That night, their differences were forgotten. Andrastians and Avvar, Templars and Mages, Orelsians and Fereldans, they all celebrated alike in Haven under a clear, calm sky. The Avvar had brought fire bowls to light the town, and everyone had brought their bards, providing music and song, of the torn sky and the hero who healed it. There had been no agreement yet whether she was the Herald of Andraste or the Marked One of the Lady. And for this one night, it did not matter. For this one night, all that mattered was laughter and music and the joy of witnessing a miracle.

The miracle worker herself arrived last, after a long talk with Cassandra in the Chantry. Cullen was first to notice her and he rose from his seat when she approached, and she met him with a smile. And she was so beautiful. More beautiful than she had ever been, in the fire light, with that smile on her face and the weight of the world off her shoulders. She rushed towards him, took his hands and leaned closer, her body against his and she was on her tiptoes again, so she could reach his ear and whisper:

“Dance with me!”

“I don’t know the steps,” he admitted.

“Neither do I!” she replied with a bright laugh and no care in the world. She pulled him with her anyways, towards the nearest fire and there they could only imitate the Fereldan dance the Inquisition soldiers performed. He put his right behind her back, his hand splayed over the hide of her coat, and he took her right in his left, while her marked hand rested on his shoulder and her fingertips gently brushed the back of his neck. The dance was fast around the fire, skips and spins and despite neither of them knowing the steps, Cullen could not remember the last time he had enjoyed himself so much. They spun around the fire, the momentum of their movement pressing her closer against him, her laughter surrounding him, her nose brushing his cheek, he felt drunk on the feeling of having her in his arms.

By the Gods, he should just kiss her. He was drawn in by her laughter, by the spark and joy in her eyes, the carelessness now that the Breach was closed and she was free of that wound that was draining her life. She leaned ever closer, her hand now in his hair. And she did it again, the way she pulled her lower lip with her teeth, only this time she did not look away from him, but glanced between his eyes and his lips and she might just as well have set him on fire. “How long has it been?” she asked, her breath warm on his lips and cheek.

“How long has what been?”

“Since the conclave? Since I’ve been with your hold?”

“Almost three months now…” he whispered back.

They had stopped spinning, he was not even entirely sure if they were still anywhere near the other dancers. They just stood in each other’s arms, her fingers caressing through his blond curls.

“Three months…” she repeated, pressed her body against his. “And you still haven’t kissed me…”

“Do you want me to?” he asked.

“Maker’s breath, yes, Cullen!”

“Truly?” he asked, a smirk on his lips at how frustrated her words sounded.

“I have been thinking of nothing but your lips on mine for weeks and-”

Her words got away from her when both of his hands came to cup her face. He leaned towards her, his heart drumming furious in his chest, his lips burning with the need to be pressed to hers. She sighed a little when she leaned into him, melted against his body and her eyes fluttered close. Their noses brushed and her warm breath mingled with his. Her arm came around him, holding herself upright, fingers digging deep into his curls. He tilted his head just a little and closed the distance between them.

Gods, her lips were everything he had though they would be. Sweet and soft and warm. Her arms pulled him in, her hand formed a fist in his hair, the feeling of her body fitting so perfectly in his arms made him groan into the kiss. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulled her closer as they stumbled back against the stone wall of the Chantry. He ran his tongue over her lips, savouring the taste. A whimper escaped her as her lips parted and she drew him in, hot breaths mingling, her kiss as hungry and burning as he felt, her desire for him just as pronounced as his. It was everything. Everything he thought it would be and so much more. It was the kind of kiss that made him want to tear the thick coat from her, made him want to knead his fingers into her flesh, to taste her skin and feel her writhe and moan with pleasure under him, with only the light of a distant fire casting shadows on the landscape of her skin.

He wanted her. He wanted her so much he was going to burn himself. He would be devoured by his longing for her, and if this story ended with them being apart, he would surely go insane.

They pulled apart, their breath coming in heated pants, small white clouds between them. Her eyes were still closed, her tongue slowly tracing her lips, breathless and with a smile. Yet he felt doubt creep into his mind, even though that kiss had set them both ablaze.

“I… need to know… if I will lose you…” he whispered breathless still.

“Lose me?”

“Now the Breach is closed… will you leave me…? Return to your own people?”

She gasped, then averted her gaze. It hurt to bring it up, but he had to. Because if she left, he could not afford to get any deeper into this inferno than he already was, or she would burn him alive. If she left, he would forever pine after her and he could not do that, so he had to know now, before it was too late.

“Cullen, I… I don’t… I don’t know… They are my people… and I have my family, and… but then… there’s you… I… Right now I… don’t know _where_ I belong…”

_You belong with me_.

He wanted to say it, but did not. He wanted to tell her that if she chose to stay with him, he would make her the happiest woman in the world. But he did not say anything. “I’m sorry…” her fingertips gently stroked over his cheeks, his jaw, and just as she went to close the distance between them again, everything spiralled out of control.


	11. The Elder One Still Comes

The bells above the Chantry were ringing in alarm and she saw people running from the corner of her eye, heard the shouting. To pull her attention from the man in front of her, this rough edged warrior who held her in such gentle arms, who kissed her with such longing, was the hardest thing she would ever do. But something was wrong. She heard Cassandra yell orders, saw the Seeker with her blade drawn.

“Something’s not right!” Ros declared and left the arms of the man she… she what? She _loved_? Did she love Cullen? If she did, how could she ever even consider leaving him? “Cassandra!” she called out. The Seeker turned towards her.

“An army approaches, no banner. They are attacking Haven.”

“Haven is no fortress, it will be overrun!” Ros gasped.

“We’re evacuating everyone we can to the Chantry. Join them, quickly!” Cassandra ordered.

“My people are out there! They are no match for an army, they will be slaughtered!” Cullen protested. And there it was, Ros realised. The decision she had put off all this time. The Chantry or the Avvar, Andraste or the Lady, her old life with the Inquisition or her new life with Cullen. And she found it really was no struggle at all, there was no choice to make. Her heart had made that choice for her. Perhaps a long time ago.

She turned to Cullen.

“We’ll get to them in time!” she said and rushed to the gates of Haven with him.

“If you leave now, you will not make it out of this valley alive!” Cassandra warned. Ros looked back at the Seeker.

“Then that is my choice.”

She rushed down the steps to the gate, where Cullen caught up with her. He caught her arm.

“Ros, that’s a death sentence.”

“What, you think I’ll let you go out there to find your people by yourself? Not going to happen, Cullen,” her hand came to his cheek. “I am _not_ leaving you.”

The gate rumbled, flames licking up underneath it, then the light receded.

“If someone could open this, I’d appreciate it!” a voice came from the other side, exhaustion in the tone. Ros and Cullen exchanged a worried gaze, then they opened the gate together, just enough to slip through. Outside of Haven’s walls, the valley stretched and as far as the eye could see over the nearest hills, they saw torches moving through the forest. An army approaching, indeed. Right outside the gate, a group of men in foreign armour had been slain and only one man remained. He was dressed in elegant robes and leather, leaned on a mage staff. His clothes betrayed him as a foreigner, and by the snake embroidered on his robes Ros could only name one nation he could possibly come from. The mage was a Tevinter.

He struggled to his feet, Cullen came to help him stand.

“Thank you. I came to warn you – fashionably late I am afraid…” the young man said. His appearance was striking, with blue eyes contrasting his dark skin, and a perfectly groomed moustache as silky and perfectly curled as his dark head of hair.

“You know who is attacking?”

Ros glanced back surprised to find Cassandra had joined them, as had Varric.

“They are a cult from my homeland, they call themselves the Venatori and they lead an army of rebel mages. They serve a… thing… that calls itself ‘the Elder One’. There,” the mage explained and he turned to point across the frozen lake just outside the village. There was a cliff rising and atop it stood a woman in black robes. By her side appeared, as if on cue, a creature, taller than any human, distorted and disfigured and monstrous, eyes glowing red and threatening. Spindly, long fingers pointed at them and he bellowed an order to the approaching army. Ros shivered. Even though she could not hear the voice of the creature, there was recognition in the back of her mind.   
The shadow from her nightmare. The monstrosity at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, who had captured the Divine as a sacrifice. The very creature that had ordered her death. “The woman is Calpernia, she commands the Venatori.”

“That’s him. That’s the creature from my memory,” she said.

“Are you certain?” Cassandra asked. Ros nodded.

“I’m positive.”

“Ros!” Cullen took her arm and when she looked up, there was fierce determination on his features. “We need time to evacuate. I will go to my camp and we’ll move everyone we can to safety, but I need you to buy us time.”

“If we can get that trebuchet working, we can drop half the mountain on these bastards. That should buy us some time,” Varric suggested, pointing at one of the three trebuchets the Inquisition had set up here in case they needed to defend themselves. Ros looked from the dwarf to the trebuchet, and then to the warrior before her. She nodded.

“Go! I’ll buy you all the time you need.”

“We’ll join your people in the Chantry,” he said with a firm nod, then let go of her arm and pulled his sword, to cut his way through to his people.

“Cullen!”

He looked back at her once. “Be careful.”

He nodded, and she watched as he joined with the few hunters that had been in the village for the celebration. They fought their way through, then they were out of sight.

“I believe we have no time to waste,” the Tevinter mage said. Ros turned towards him.

“What do I call you?” she asked.

“Dorian. Of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous.”

Ros nodded.

“Good. Dorian, Varric, Cassandra. Let’s go!”

The four of them moved the other way from where Cullen had disappeared and fought their way to the trebuchet closest to the lake. Fire was soaring around them, magic clashing with the Templars that defended the village, led by Ser Barris himself. A massive fireball crashed into the town wall, made the earth tremble beneath them.

“What a mess!” Varric grunted.

“Why are they attacking, what could they possibly want?” Cassandra asked out of breath.

“The way I understand it, they want her,” Dorian said, nodding towards Ros.

“Me?” Ros asked confused. But realisation followed quickly. “The mark…”

“You must be quite used to people fighting over that mark by now,” Dorian commented. Ros laughed weakly. There was an expressed difference between two rivalling Avvar thane’s getting into an argument over who had been gifted by the Gods more than the other, and an entire army of mages and soldiers marching on a town to lay claim to that mark. At least the Avvar had wanted her alive, she had no doubt these Venatori would chop off her hand and leave her to die with no care in the world.

They reached the trebuchet and were met with some resistance from the Venatori, storming towards them as they approached. Their mages were the ones Cassandra picked off, one by one. The Seeker, thanks to her training and inherent abilities, was more powerful than any Templar would be at inhibiting magic, so she split from the rest of them and rushed towards the mages that had kept their distance. She took them out before Ros could even see they were there.

Ros and Dorian instead took down the foot soldiers, with Varric providing covering fire from an elevated position he had found. The infernal magic Ros wielded herself sent green flames towards their enemy, a development she was surprised by. It would seem she had internalised the magic of the mark, turning her own magic from the bright red and yellow it had once been into this eerie green fire. Dorian on the other hand commanded lightning, purple at the tips of his fingers, electrocuting several soldiers at once, while keeping a group approaching in the distance trapped in an electric cage. They both made use of crowd control, Ros guided their enemies by laying down walls of fire that blocked their enemies access, Dorian used his electric cage to delay more approaching troops and one by one, they could pick them off.

“I think that was the last of them, at least for now,” Cassandra said as she joined them again. Dorian grinned at Ros.

“My, my. We make quite the team, don’t we?”

“I’ll keep watch, prepare the trebuchet!” Varric called down to them as he climbed to higher ground where he would be able to warn them of more approaching Venatori. Ros nodded and after looking back once, towards where she knew the Avvar had their campsite, she rushed towards the base of the trebuchet. With Cassandra’s help, they could adjust the position of the siege engine and then loaded it with the intended explosives.

Ros exchanged a glance with the Seeker and together, they fired the trebuchet. The bomb soared across the night sky and hit the side of the mountain behind which the Temple lay. The thunder of the explosion echoed through the valley and for a moment, everyone seemed to hold their breath. They witnessed the roar as ice and snow burst from the mountainside and rolled down in a massive avalanche, into the valley. And more and more of the torches carried by the approaching enemy were snuffed out. Screams filled the valley, and then… silence.

“We did it…” Ros whispered, not trusting her own voice yet. But then it was a loud, excited cheer from Cassandra that made her jump in her boots. The Seeker was celebrating, congratulating her and Varric – who was just running towards them with a wide grin – for their victory. Ros sighed relieved, glancing towards the camp of the Avvar, hoping Cullen was alright and had made it to his people and they were evacuating safely.

Yet their celebration was cut short.

A furious roar in the sky let their joy die away in an instant. Ros looked up, confused, searching the sky for the source of the roar. And just in time, she saw it. A shadow, large and threatening, approaching on swift wings, fire beginning to boil up in its belly.

“Run… run!!!” she yelled, grabbed Varric by the collar and pulled him with her, hooked Dorian’s arm with her own and they ran, closely followed by Cassandra. Not a moment too soon, for only a heartbeat later the trebuchet exploded around them. Wood splinters, and metal pieces flew through the air, the remaining explosives triggered a flaming inferno, the heat burning away the oxygen around them. Ros was dizzy for a moment, before Cassandra shook her.

“We must go to the Chantry, it’s the only place that will withstand this monster!!” the Seeker yelled. Ros nodded disoriented and rushed after Cassandra. Haven was burning up around them. The few remaining Inquistion soldiers and Templars who had stayed behind to defend the village were being slaughtered by Venatori, who had now suddenly won the upper hand. How could they have anticipated a dragon?!

There were a few they managed to save by a combination of sheer luck and good timing, but as the village burned around them, hope dwindled. Ros climbed over bodies – Templars, Mages, soldiers, and Avvar alike and her heart began racing in her chest. Cullen. He had to be fine, he had to be! What if he was not at the Chantry? She would go back out there, fight her way through to him, no matter the cost. Even if it meant cutting to get enough power to find him, she would! She could not leave him out here to die. _Maker, please_ , he had to be fine.

They reached the gates of the Chantry, still wide open with a chancellor awaited them, supported by Mia.

“Mia!” Ros called from far. The blonde hunter looked up, glanced to her, then behind her.

“Cullen?” she asked. Ros’ heart stopped in her chest and she came to a halt outside the Chantry. “HE was right behind us…”

“I’ll find him!” she called back to Mia and was already away from her companions, when the dragon returned, soaring above the Chantry, spitting fire right at her. She gasped, faced with the massive fireball. But before it could strike she was knocked out of the way, found herself completely engulfed in a man’s arms and body and even over the stench of sulphur from the dragon’s breath, she could recognise the scent of the man she had shared close quarters with for weeks. Cullen. She gasped when they hit the ground, he atop her, the fire shooting over them and he protected her like a cage. Only when the fire calmed did he look down at her.

“Are you injured?!” he asked, his blond curls in a mess, his face spoke of pain. She breathlessly shook her head and sat up. He flinched, groaned and clasped his side. Ros saw blood, leaking from a wound under his winter coat, staining the snow beneath them.

“But you are! Maker’s breath, Cullen!!” she cried out.

“It’s fine, just a cut,” he insisted, looked up and with the hand he did not use to cover the bleeding, he pushed her away. “Go inside!”

“Get to your feet!” she ordered and pulled the heavy warrior up with her. He struggled to walk, but with her support he made his way into the Chantry and behind them, Dorian and Cassandra slammed the door shut. Cullen dropped onto a bench with a suffering groan, and quickly a Chantry sister was at his side to inspect his wound.

“Will the building hold?” Cassandra asked aggressively. Ser Barris met her in her stride.

“Not for long. It was certainly not made to withstand a dragon.”

Ros looked up.

“That wasn’t a normal dragon. Did you see it? It was all… disfigured and…”

“I’ve seen a dragon like that before…” the elderly chancellor said.

“What do you mean, old man?” Mia asked aggressively.

“Ten years ago, during the Blight. That dragon… is an Archdemon.”

“What does that even mean?!” Varric protested.

“Is this the beginning of a new Blight? So soon after the last one?” Cassandra asked in disbelief.

“Everybody stay calm!!” Ros yelled, her voice echoing through the Chantry. All arguments fell silent, all eyes were on her. “It doesn’t matter if it is an Archdemon or not. Right now all that matters is how we can make it out of here.”

Cullen looked up.

“My hold has moved their camp up over the nearest eastern mountain. There is a pass between the two peaks, it’s steep and treacherous, but it is narrow enough that it would slow down an army enough for us to escape,” he explained.

“But we’d have to _get_ there first, no?” Dorian asked.

“We can’t go out there, we’ll be killed. If we were all fighters, maybe. But there’s children and elderly here, and many of us are injured. We will never make it,” Cassandra protested.

“Then what do you propose? We sit here and wait to be burned alive?” Cullen barked.

“There is… a way. A hidden passage, you would not know about it unless you have done the summer pilgrimage to the Sacred Ashes…” the chancellor suddenly spoke.

“What are you on about, Roderick?” Cassandra asked as she joined the argument.

“A pathway that can be accessed from the back entrance of this Chantry. It winds up through the hills and towards the east, along the very pass the Avvar speaks of. With everyone at the conclave dead, I may well be the only one alive right now to remember this path… that I would be here now… it is as if Andraste herself wanted it.”

“That’s it, that’s our way out,” Ros confirmed.

“We will still never make it. These Venatori are right on top of us, they will catch up and kill everyone,” Cassandra said, shaking her head with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Not if we give them what they want…” Ros whispered, with a glance towards the door. There was a moment of silence, surely the moment it took everyone to realise what she was saying, and then Cullen pulled himself to his feet.

“No. That’s not happening,” he groaned. Ros came before him, a hand gentle on his wounded side, the other on his cheek.

“It’s the only way and you know it,” she whispered. He mouthed another ‘no’, shook his head. She could not bear it. She turned to Cassandra. “We have one trebuchet left. I can drop the whole mountain on them, that will keep them from following you.”

“They are right on top of us, if you bury them… there is no way you will escape in time. This valley would be your grave,” the Seeker said in disbelief.

“I should have died at the conclave, but I did not. Maybe this is why. Maybe I survived so I could do this. Maybe… the Lady of the Sky, or Andraste, or whichever deity you want, needed me to be here today to do this.”

There was a moment’s hesitation in Cassandra’s response, but then she nodded.

“I hope for all of our sakes that you are right. And I pray for you, Róisín Trevelyan,” she said sternly. Ros nodded quietly and then watched as Leliana took to support the injured chancellor Roderick so he may lead the refugees to safety. One by one they followed, with only Cullen staying still.

“Ros…” he whispered. She turned to him, shook her head.

“It’s alright. This is the right thing to do. I…” she looked up at him and smiled, although her heart was breaking. She brushed a thumb over his lips. “I am so sorry. I… I wish we had more time… there were so many things we never… but Cullen, I…”

Her words failed her and she did the only thing she could. And Maker forgive her, if this was to be the last kiss they got, she would not let it go to waste. She wrapped an arm around his neck, pulled him towards her while rising to her tiptoes to meet his lips halfway. There was desperation and fear in this, in the way their lips collided, in the way he gasped first, then pulled her against him and let his lips roam hungrily. Her lips parted and she pulled him in deep, teeth grazing over his lower lip, tongues meeting in languid strokes. His hands held her close, fingers kneading into her even through the thick hide of her coat. This was a kiss-goodbye and they both knew it. She pulled away, because she feared his lips would burn away her determination and she felt a painful knot of tears held back in her throat. He stood perplexed, and it took all her strength to part from him, to leave his arms empty where she should be.

“Róisín...” he whispered, his voice broken in his throat.

“We don’t have time to waste,” the Seeker declared. Cassandra marched past them towards the heavy gate of the Chantry. Varric was with her, as was the elf, Solas.

“What are you...?” Ros asked confused.

“We’ll go with you. You will need someone to cover your back while you calibrate that trebuchet. And quite frankly, I doubt you can do that alone,” Varric said with a grin.

“With help, maybe we will all survive this yet,” Cassandra said sternly. Ros hesitated a moment, then she smiled. With a nod she turned back to Cullen. She pulled him into another kiss, a kiss for them to hold on to, a kiss to make she would not forget the feeling of his lips, no matter what happened. And then she joined Cassandra, Varric and Solas.

The _‘I love you’_ remained unspoken when she left the Chantry and Cullen followed the remaining refugees on the hidden path. But they both knew it was real.  

* * *

The four reached the trebuchet, fighting their way through a never ending onslaught of Venatori. The third, the last trebuchet still intact, sat atop a hill just inside the walls of Haven and while it overlooked the lake and valley, it could easily be turned to face the mountain towering over the village’s northern flank. A bank of thick snow and ice covered the mountainside, just what they needed.

“Cover us while we ready this!” Cassandra yelled towards Solas and Varric. Both turned from the trebuchet, one facing the path that led west towards the Temple road, the other turning east where the village lay, covering the only two points from where the Venatori could access this spot. Or so they hoped. Cassandra and Ros joined forces to turn the trebuchet, turning cranking, frozen wheels and readying the explosives needed for their suicidal manoeuvre. And they were almost done with their grim task, when a whirl of blue fire shot only inches past the explosives. Ros flew around and saw a robed figure march towards them. A female mage with short, black hair and a Circle issued staff.

She jumped off the platform of the trebuchet, drew her own staff and laid out a protective barrier in preparation. And then she recognised the face. The noble features, bright eyes, pointy ears…

“Grand Enchanter Fiona?” she gasped.

“The leader of the Rebel Mages,” Cassandra added, her sword drawn to fight the mage still marching towards them with angry determination.

“No! She’s a friend! Fiona, please, you have to listen,” Ros began, but another blue fireball aimed her way forced her to evade.

“The time for talking is over. We have talked enough. This is the only way the Chantry will learn…”

“You think this is about the Chantry? You think this will decide the Mage-Templar War?”

“The Chantry would have had us all slaughtered. But the Elder One sees our worth, he protected us from the Templars. The conclave would have yielded no results. The only language the Chantry speaks is that of blood. You know that to be true, in your heart. You know what it is like to be on the run, to be restless and always afraid.”

Ros fell silent. Of course she knew. Still, she shook her head.

“I do. But that is not what this is about. I don’t know what this… Elder One told you, or even what he is or what he is trying to accomplish here. But this is… bigger than our war. Much bigger. Fiona, please…”

“No! Enough!”

Fiona whirled her staff above her head, then slammed down the blade, tearing open the earth with fiery cracks.

“We have to take her down!!” Cassandra yelled and leapt forward. Holy fire burst up around her and when her sword met Fiona’s staff, the bright light of the smite tossed the mage backwards. Fiona gasped and groaned as she tried to get back to her feet, but Cassandra was on top of her already, blade ready to striker her down. There, she hesitated, she waited. She glanced back at Ros,as if looking for approval. And right there, they both looked at each other equally confused. Why would Cassandra need Ros’ permission to do anything? As if realising her own confused mistake, she turned back to her target and slammed down the blade, piercing Fiona through. The Enchanter cried out and then fell still. Ros looked away, hands in shaking fists. What had they become? What was this war turning them into?

Cassandra pulled her bloodied sword out of the dead mage’s abdomen and stepped away from the body. Ros was sure she heard the Seeker mumble a blessing, sending the mage off to the side of whichever deity she believed in – elvhen creator’s, or the Maker himself – and then she returned to the trebuchet. “We don’t have time to grieve…”

“Just how many more of us will have to fall before this pointless conflict is resolved…” Ros whispered, more to herself, as she and Cassandra put the final load of explosives into the trebuchet.

And just as they climbed off the platform to fire the trebuchet, the roar of the dragon approached. Ros stepped back, watched the beast fly directly towards them.

“Move… now!!!” she yelled, pushed her companions down the path towards the Chantry. Flames burst up behind her, made her loose her footing and fall forward into snow and ashes. She rolled over her shoulder, to her feet and took a step towards the flames, only to have her path cut off by the dragon. It roared, spat fire at her, forcing her backwards. And when she turned, she saw him.

The Elder One.

He stepped out of the flames, surely with a sense for the dramatic, towards her. The creature was monstrous, flesh torn apart by black, burnt crystals, a mage robe and armour molten into its body, inseparably connected. It had the face of a man, but his features were torn and twisted. Like the Archdemon. Like… a Darkspawn. In one hand, he carried an orb of black stone, a green shimmer in the ridges of the artefact. Ros had her staff ready, a spell tickling in her fingertips, but the creature would have none of it.

“Enough!”

The creature cast red energy towards her, Ros felt her hands stiffen, forcing her to drop her staff. She gasped in shock. “Pretender! You toy with forced beyond your ken. No more.”

She gritted her teeth.

“Whatever you are, I am not afraid!” she declared. There it was again, her bravado in the face of fear. Because Maker’s breath, she was afraid. And he seemed to smell it in the air. The creature chuckled.

“Many have said so. But you and I know it is a lie. Know me. Know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One. The will that is Corypheus,” the creature declared, his voice like a soothing darkness that could let you drift away, but at the same time a threat so open and clear it could as well be a blade to the throat. He pointed the fingers of one spindly, large hand at her, a gesture she remembered clearly now. “You will kneel.”

“I will _never_ kneel!” Ros protested, and with a surge of her magic blasted green flames at the creature. Flames that were absorbed by the black orb he carried as if it were a magnet.

“Ever the insolent child. I will claim back what is mine. The anchor.”

He slightly raised the orb he carried, and it began flaring up, green flames surrounding it. A familiar sting shot through her left, and as Ros glanced down she saw the bright green glow of her mark reopen the wound. The pain coursed through her hand, made her gulp back tears. “You have interrupted a ritual years in planning, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose.”

The orb pulsed, and the mark flared up. Ros screamed, grasped her burning hand. “Your survival was a mistake, and what marks you as ‘touched’ – what you flail at rifts – _I_ crafted to assault the very heavens. To return to the Black City that slammed its doors shut and cast us down.”

He closed his spindly fingers around the orb, and the pulse of magic that shot through her hand was so powerful, it made her cry out and fall to her knees. Tears shot into her eyes, rolled over her cheeks. She felt like the mark was tearing her apart in its attempt to resist the pull of the orb. It wanted to stay, it would not leave. She looked up.

“You… you saw the Black City…?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“And now you use my anchor to undo my work. No more. I will cast you down, pretender, and show the truth to everyone. That we are abandoned, there is no Maker. No more!” he declared and now he marched towards her. With his free hand, he reached to grab her wrist and pulled her up to face him, pulling the mark onto his eyelevel, forcing her to dangle above the ground like a doll. “I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods and the Empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption, dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused. No more. I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion with the Tevinter and correct this blighted world.”

He pulled her close enough for his foul breath to hit her face. “Beg that I succeed. For I have seen the throne of the Gods… and it was empty…”

And he tossed her aside carelessly. Ros flew towards the trebuchet, crashed against the wooden platform with the wind knocked from her pipes. She groaned as she got to her feet again.

“Blighted… world…? _You_ did this to us. _You_ brought this blight upon us!” she yelled. Yet her accusations went unheard. The creature picked up its orb again and turned towards her.

“The anchor is permanent. You have spoilt it with your ignorant stumbling. So be it. I will begin again. I will find another way to give this world the God it requires. But you… I will not suffer even an unknowing child as my rival. You will die tonight, once and for all.”

The creature came closer, but as it spoke, Ros saw it. The burning arrow high in the sky, between the two mountain peaks in the east. A signal, for her no doubt, that the refugees had made it out of the valley and to the pass. A smile ghosted over her lips.

“I am not the fool. I am the bait. And you are the fool who took it.”

She turned and with one decisive kick she pushed the trigger of the trebuchet. The cords snapped, and the load of explosives was sent flying into the mountain side. It thundered over the valley, and the avalanche came crashing down.

Ros did not stay behind to enjoy the scene. She ran, ran as fast as she could, past the dragon and down the path towards the Chantry. She was about halfway when the snow came crashing down and she had to evade, she stumbled and hit old wooden planks that gave in under her feet. She cried out as she fell, crashing into the darkness. She hit sharp rocks, the air painfully knocked from her lungs as she fell and snow and rocks began pouring down the hole after her. She felt ice slip under her, then hit her head against a sharp edge and the moment she felt the blood run hot down her cheeks was just the moment before everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, if you guys want to follow me on tumblr where I sometimes ramble about my writing process and have generally a lot of DA, Mass Effect, and the ocasional random fandom going on, find me there as:  
> the-promise-has-been-made


	12. The Longest Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra chapter, because I won't be here over the weekend so there will be a slightly longer break. And this gives me the chance to wrap up the 'In Your Heart Shall Burn' Act. Enjoy! Comments and Kudos very much welcome, even though I won't be able to respond before Sunday evening!

_“Wake up… you have to… wake up… WAKE UP!”_

When Ros came to, it took her a moment to recollect what had happened. To remember the confrontation with the Elder One, Corypheus, and the avalanche she apparently had narrowly escaped. For now. No guarantee for survival yet. She sat up, and every movement was painful.

Her hand was pulsing with energy, there was blood dripping from her jaw, where it had run to all the way from her brow. Her left side hurt brutally when she was breathing and when she felt with her right hand, she touched cold, wet clothes, soaked in her own blood. She whimpered against the pain of the touch. If she stayed here, she would die. She knew that. She would either succumb to her injuries, or freeze to death even through the warm clothes the Avvar had given her. She had to get out of here, find the way to the pass, find the camp – or die trying. But dying out there was definitely better than dying in here.

She looked up. The hole she had fallen through was covered by rocks, ice and snow, and the ceiling of the frozen cave she found herself in was supported by old, creaking wooden beams. Maybe an ancient mining shaft or some other old tunnel construction. Either way, it had to have another exit.

She pulled herself to her feet and when she put the first ounce of pressure on her right foot, she felt a stinging pain up from her ankle all the way to her knee. She gasped, felt her knee bend to the pain and had to grab hold of a piece of rock to stay upright. A quiet sob escaped her. But she straightened her back and with a hesitant limp, she began following the tunnel before her. With every step she took, she felt blood squeeze out through the wound at her side, fresh and hot, so she clasped her hand over the wound, pressed down on it to still the bleeding. And she walked. Slow and pained, ever forward.

After a while, the tunnel mouthed into a dome, and ahead, she saw a stone arch marking an entrance. Beyond she could see white light, filling the cave dome. And exit. A way out, to find her bearings under the stars and find her companions, her camp. Find Cullen. Maker, she could not die here, not like this, not now. Not without having told him how she felt. That she loved him, that she wanted to be with him, come what may.

Yet the way to him was full of obstacles.

As she stepped out into the cave dome, echoing shrieks surrounded her and from the ground whirled three despair demons. No doubt leftover from the rifts in the area, the cloaked creatures started moving in on her. The cold magic surrounding them made her knees shiver and her tears freeze to her cheeks. But she clenched her left to a fist. It was still there, she felt it, the power of the mark – the anchor – pulsing through her palm. When she opened it, the cut was glowing brightly, as if it responded to her. Ros drew in a deep, cold breath. The demons shrieked and as they moved to attack, her left came up.

Green fire burst from her mark, tore open the air above them. A rift, slicing the veil and allowing a glimpse into the Fade. As the rift opened, its magic began roaring and green lighting shot out. The pull was powerful, so powerful it drew the demons towards it. They shrieked and flailed, tried to escape the surge, but they were torn into tatters, sucked back to where they had come from. And when the three of them had fully disintegrated, the green rift snapped and collapsed.

Ros gasped, dropping her hand and staring down at it. Well, this was certainly new! Yet, thinking back to what Corypheus had said, it made perfect sense. He had designed this anchor as a means to enter the Fade, to conquer the Black City. She had only ever used it to close the rifts, but it was easy to assume it had to have the power to open these rifts, too. Perhaps it had only been activated after Corypheus’ attempt at getting the anchor back from her. Now she had solid proof for that theory. That was not a power to take lightly. The Chantry taught that when mortals attempted to enter the Fade physically, rather than in their dreams, they corrupted the Golden City of the Gods, turned it black and when they returned from the Fade they were all tainted. It brought the first Blight, the Chantry said. Darkspawn, born from the arrogance ant entitlement of mortals. To have that power, the power to open a tear in the veil and, for all intents and purposes, step right through it, was a power so horrifying she was not sure she would tell anyone about it. It was good to know she had that power, good to know she could send demons right back with just a flail of her hand. But the implications of that, she would keep to herself.

She swallowed hard, a mouthful of metallic taste, possibly blood, and then continued her march towards the exit of the caves and outside.

Cold wind blew in her face, scratched small grains of ice over her skin and made her gasp at the cold. There were no bearings to get. She had stumbled into a blizzard where the horizon blended together in white. She could only barely make out mountain tops somewhere in the distance.

As she stumbled out of the cave, she sank up to her knees into fresh snow, cold wet trickling into her boots. She stumbled once, had to catch her fall with her hands and left a red trail in the snow, quickly covered up by freshly fallen flakes.

She had no idea where she was going. Everything looked the same and the more she tried to find the right direction, the blurrier her vision grew with frustrated tears. Eventually, she shook off her desperation. She could not just sit here and cry herself to death! She had to go somewhere! Even if it was the wrong way, at least she would not die of indecision.

And so she walked. Stumbling, on weak legs, wading through high snow. The white stretched endless around her, cold wind forced her to squint against the ice scratching her skin and she tried to cover her face with her marked hand as best as she could. The one good thing about the cold was that is slowed the bloodflow, making the wound in her side slowly dry. But she was sure the fabric of her coat was freezing to her skin by now.

How long she wandered aimlessly through the valley, she did not know. Everything around her looked the same until she saw the first trees, poking out of the thick snow cover. Dark, old pines that had withstood the force of the avalanche. And there, under a tree… that looked like a campsite. Abandoned it may be, but she still made her way too it. Maybe it had been abandoned recently, maybe there were still tracks the fresh snow had not covered yet. Maybe…

Cold. The fire site was cold, no tracks were visible, a dead end. But it told her one thing. She was on the right track. Her gaze wandered up ahead, where the two mountain peaks rose into the clouds. This had to be it. This had to be the pass they had talked about, it had to, it was her only hope of survival. It was faint, just a glimmer, but it was more than she had two hours ago.

So she dragged herself on, marched forward, foot before foot. She made it from tree to tree, used the old trunks to lean against and rest every time.

Soon the slope began, making the march even more exhausting. She stumbled repeatedly, fell forward into the snow, was on her hands and knees then tried to get up again and keep going. Always going. How strange it was, she thought, that no fear was trying to sneak its way into her mind. But for some reason, she was not afraid. After having faced the creature in Haven and lived, what was there left to be afraid of, truly? Not freezing to death, that was a fact.

She stumbled again, fell forward, and tore at the wound in her side. A wave of blood washed out of it, made her gasp and whimper. She stayed on all fours, crying.

“Please… I can’t… I can’t do this on my own… I don’t want to die…” she sobbed. She was not sure anymore if she begged to the Maker or Andraste or the Lady of the Sky to calm her storm, or the Mountain Father to guide her steps. She was not sure what she believed anymore, if she even still believed at all, after the horrors of this night.

_I have seen the throne of the Gods, and it was empty._

The voice echoed in her mind. What if he was right? What if there were no Gods left, what if they were truly abandoned? The Chantry often taught that the Maker had turned away from his creation, but that devotion and faith would gain his favour. But what if they were wrong? What if there was no Maker at all? If he was gone, as Corypheus said? What if all their prayers went unheard , not because they fell on deaf ears but because there were no ears left to listen? Her breath was shaking with pain and tears. What was the point? If Corypheus was right, what was the point in even trying? The point in fighting, if there was no hope left?

She squeezed her eyes shut, sobbing quietly, teeth gritted together to fight the pain.

And then she felt something. Hands on her shoulders, warm and very light. They squeezed.

“You have to get up. They need you. _He_ needs you. You cannot give up now. If you give up, who will be left to believe?”

The voice was strangely familiar. Ros opened her eyes and turned towards the voice to find the face of a pale boy. How he had gotten here or who he was, she was too baffled to ask. He pulled her too her feet, even though his own left no imprint in the snow. “Keep walking,” he said, and pushed her onward. She stumbled, but her feet did carry her forward. And she did not look back again, never stopped to wonder why the boy was not catching up with her.

How long she stumbled up between the mountains, she was not sure. It might have been several hours, her body just moved automatically, beyond her control, her mind had drifted away into thoughts of home. Thoughts of being welcomed back in Ostwick with open arms, thoughts of being embraced by her mother and father and oldest brother, tears of joy streaming down their faces to have her back safe and sound. Thoughts of being wrapped in fine robes again, of sitting by a fireplace in the library, reading in her father’s large, cushioned armchair, sipping wine. But also… thoughts of lying in the arms of Cullen, protective and strong, holding her against him, his warm chest under her, his heart beating near her ear. Skin to skin, his fingertips stroking over her bare back, following the curve of her spine, down to the small of her back and up again between her shoulder blades, soft touches in the twilight, making her heart race.

A lazy smile came to her lips at the thought of being with him, and she almost missed it. There up ahead, half hidden by rocks, was another abandoned campsite. She stumbled towards it, fell to her knees before the cold firewood. But there, protected from the cold wind and snow by old, moist logs: Embers. Ros shivered, but held out both hands – one bloodied, both cold and stiff – towards the dying embers. This was recent. This had not been out for long. There were no tracks in the fresh snow but as she looked up she noticed… the storm had ceased. The sky above was clear, stars could be seen far and wide on the black and purple velvet, and was starting to dip into the soft orange and pink of dawn on the horizon. She looked back, saw the valley of Haven below still covered by clouds and storm and snow, a grey pit where nothing could survive. But she had. Somehow.

She turned and stumbled past the abandoned campsite, made her way through between rocks. She remembered Cullen’s description of the pass – a narrow passage between the two peaks that would slow down an enemy army. She could imagine that. There was no way a travelling company could make it through here with more than two people walking next to each other. Her shoulder scraped along the dark rocks as she made her way through the passage and stepped out on the other side. From here, she could see below. There, down in the next valley, lay a large camp. Many tents, many fire pits, small, moving people.

Ros drew in a shaky breath, it turned into a sob in her throat. She had found them. By some… divine guidance, she had found them. She staggered forward, away from the rocks, to make her way down again. She noticed movement ahead, saw hooded figured appear in the corner of her eye and when they spotted her, they stopped abruptly. One of them pulled his hood off and revealed a head of golden curls and burning, honey coloured eyes. Ros could not hold back the tears of relief. Cullen. Thank the Maker. And the Lady. And whoever was watching over her for some reason.

“Cullen…” she whispered, her voice hoarse and unfamiliar in her throat.

“It’s her! She’s alive!!” he called back at the rest of the group he was with, the ones who had not spotted her yet. And he rushed towards her best as he could against the high snow. Ros collapsed, her knees finally giving in for good as she broke down crying. And as she fell, he came to catch her. His arms closed around her, held her close and she felt his lips hot on her forehead and temple. He whispered in his native language, fervent words, like prayers, and she could not understand any of it, too exhausted to apply what she had learned and translate it. All she could do was wrap her arms around him, cling to him as she cried into the black lion mane.

“You found me…” she whispered.

“Of course I found you. I will always find you…” he whispered back, caressing her hair. She remembered a smile on her lips. And then nothing.

* * *

It was the longest night.

Cullen stood in the cracked rocks of the passage between the two peaks, stared down at Haven as it was buried under the might of the avalanche. He watched as trees were cracked like toothpicks by the sheer force of the Mountain Father, watched as the buildings that had once been Haven were buried under the elements. He heard the screams beneath, then only silence as every living thing down there was crushed.

He could not breath. His lungs were burning with the lack of oxygen, he was getting dizzy from staring unblinking at the destruction below. And he could not look away because he knew she was somewhere down there. Buried under ice and snow she lay, cold and alone. Wiped away the sweet smile on her pink lips, extinguished the bright light in her eyes, drained the rosy colour of her cheeks, cold that soft skin. She was lost, had given her life so that they could escape.

“Hey. Curly… we need to go…”

His hands were clenched to fists, nails digging into the flesh of his palms. He drew in a deep breath filling his starved lungs with sharp, cold air and as his ribcage expanded, he felt the throbbing pain on his side, the fresh blood leaking through his coat and bandages.

“No.” he said.

“She knew what she was doing. She knew it was suicide. Giving yourself up now means spitting on her sacrifice. Do you want that? Do you want her to have died for nothing?” the Seeker asked, a hand firm on his shoulder.

“What I _want_ is her!” he snapped at her. But he found only compassion in the Seeker’s dark eyes, no challenge, no confrontation.

“I know. I am truly sorry.”

The Seeker turned away and joined the rest of the refugees. Cullen stood frozen still, unable to move on. All he could think was that he would never kiss her lips again. He would never hold her in his arms again, would never feel her skin under his fingers, never taste her breath again, or hear her laugh or say his name. She would never brush her finger through his hair again, would never dance with him again. All the things he hoped to share with her, they would never share. He had wanted to be sure she would not leave him and return to her old life for fear she would take his heart with him. But this was so much worse than what he could have imagined.

“Cullen…”

Mia’s voice was quiet, soft, unusual for her and when he glanced back at his sister, she stood with her arms folded over her chest, shielding herself from biting cold winds that were rolling into the valley. “I am so sorry… But we need to keep moving.”

“I know… Just… give me a moment…”

His sister nodded and she, too, turned away and followed the rest of the refugees. And finally, after the silence fell over the valley of Haven and thick storm clouds blocked the destroyed town from his view, he tore himself away.

The march of refugees stretched down into the next valley, people dragging their tired feet forward to the campsite below, where the remaining Avvar already waited for them. He saw the fire pits and tents and the first refugees arriving already. Slowly he followed. Every step he took was torture, every step gnawed at him, felt like abandoning her to her cruel fate. As the moons were blocked by angry clouds rolling in he saw the mages light the tips of their staves, like torches. Soft colours, green and red and yellow and pink, and – very clearly visible – the elf, holding a blue flame as he strode on light feet ahead of the rest.

As Cullen walked, he passed the augur. The elderly mage had stopped and her gaze was turned towards the sky. It made him stop and turn towards her with a questioning look.

“She unleashes her grief upon the valley where her chosen one died. The Lady is very angry.”

“Well, she can get in line,” Cullen growled and turned away to continue back down into the valley. The augur caught up with him after a while and put a little, wrinkled hand on his arm.

“You mourn the loss of one you loved. The Lady understands and will not be insulted if you scorn her for it.”

“Why did she choose her, if all she needed was a sacrifice? Why bring… why bring her into my life, only to take her away?”

“It will all make sense in time. I believe that Our Lady did what she did for a reason. And I believe Róisín knew that. Like she said, perhaps she survived the conclave so she could save all of us tonight.”

“It’s not fair…”

Cullen pulled away from the old shaman and continued his march lonely. Lonely and haunted. Every time the wind hit his face, he thought he felt her warm breath, thought he heard her laughter by his ear as he held her in his arms, spinning around the fire with her. He still felt her, pressed against him, warm and soft, her fingers in his hair as she pulled him closer into her kiss, her taste still on his tongue – like a sweet wine, honey and mint and berries. He had to shake off the memory, for it was tearing his heart apart over and over.

When he reached the camp, Rosalie was running towards him. She threw her arms around him, nearly knocked him off his feet.

“Thank the Gods you are alive!” she cried out, buried her face in the furs he wore. He held his little sister close. He knew her talk with Róisín had left her with a concern she had not had before – a worry about losing her own brothers, like Róisín had lost hers.

After a moment, his little sister parted from him, rubbed dirt from his face and put a hand over his wound. Only then did she look past him. “Róisín?” she asked. He swallowed hard, then shook his head slowly. Rosalie clasped a hand over her lips. The Gods knew she had not always been kind to the lowlander, but they had discovered they had things in common – their gift of magic and their love for their older brothers among them.

Cullen shook his head when she looked like she wanted to speak. He did not want to speak about it, about her. To anyone.

He smiled weakly, a hand on his little sister’s cheek, before he left her standing with her gaze towards the pass they had crossed.

The storm that rolled in forced them into their tents. He sat alone, in silence, nothing but the howling wind keeping him company, for a good three hours it whipped ice and snow over their camp until it finally ceased and one by one they dug themselves out of the high snow. It had given him time to put a new bandage around his wound. It was healing well, thanks to magic and apothecary. When he finally left his tent, he found the three women leading the Inquisition yelling at each other in their camp. The Nightingale insisted on taking them to Orlais, where they would recover the resources lost in the attack. The Seeker insisted that they would not find any more support there now than they had before this night. And the Lady Montilyet tried her best to mediate between the two. Cullen shook his head quietly. They lacked leadership. They lacked the voice of one person not allowing any argument with their decision. And until they found that person, their organisation was crippled and weak.

He turned from the three bickering women and his gaze fell on the pass. The clouds had passed and he could see the path up clearly despite the fresh snow.

“The storm seems to have quieted down…” Mia said. He glanced over at her and found his sister had put on her full gear, a bow over her shoulder and a full quiver of arrows, her hood was pulled over her golden curls. And as he glances past her he saw more hunters were preparing for a scouting. With them, the dwarf with his magnificent crossbow.

“What are you doing?” he asked, grimly, his brows furrowed. He was still the thane, he did not remember giving any orders to his Master of the Hunt.

“Like I said, the storm seems to have quieted down. We’re heading back into the valley and see if we can recover anything. Or… anyone…”

“That’s madness. You’d risk your life for a pointless endeavour,” Cullen growled, shaking his head. But the hunters showed no sign of doubt or fear.

“She was an envoy of Our Lady, she deserves a proper funeral. We’ll find her body and return her to where she belongs.”

This was madness. But… he watched the hunters gather and it itched in his fingertips to take up his own sword and put on his scouting gear and join them.

“I’ll go with you.”

“Cullen, you’re injured…” Mia protested. When he turned back to her, his gaze was a fire.

“I’ll go with you,” he repeated. This time, she did not argue. She nodded and gathered her hunters while he took his gear. By the time he returned from his tent, the Seeker had joined the hunters too. They exchanged no words, just a quiet nod before the group moved out of camp. Cullen looked back, saw that Avvar and Andrastians alike had gathered to watch them leave. They all hoped. They all hoped they would find their chosen one alive – their Herald of Andraste or their Marked One, right now, to them, it was all the same. They all hoped the woman who had made it possible for them to be here, to be alive, was still out there, by some miracle. And by the Gods, he hoped it too.

They climbed up the path again, difficult to get their footing in the fresh, soft snow. But they moved forward. Always a scout ahead, then they returned with news of nothing. Hardly any words were spoken over the time they travelled up the mountain pass. Two hours, maybe three, and the campsite fell away below, small and distant now, like a toy village. Cullen wanted to think about what would happen if they found nothing. If they could not recover her body, if she was buried too deep under the snow, crushed and torn apart by the force of the avalanche. His mind was overwhelmed by that darkness, the thought of finding her like that, and he felt his stomach clench together. Would he be able to cope, seeing her like this, so destroyed, with nothing left of… the woman he loved? Would the memory of that haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life? Would he ever be able to forgive himself for letting her go on her own?

They reached the crest of the pass, the two peaks rising threateningly and sharp on either side of them and there, just ahead, he saw the narrow passage between the rocks they had come through just hours before. The rest of the scouting party rested for just a moment, stretching their tired limbs after the hike. But he pushed on. Like something was forcing his heels forward, maybe because he needed to see what lay beyond that passage, maybe because the Lady knew he could not stop. Maybe…

When he noticed movement, he had his sword drawn immediately. His first thought was that the Venatori had somehow managed to follow, that some of them had survived the avalanche and had now caught up, found the passage and figure out where they had fled to. One lonely figure stepped through the passage, walking on shaky legs, clutching their side. And… and their left hand, hanging exhausted on their side, had a faint green glow to it.

Cullen felt his heart drop into his knees. This was impossible, it was simply impossible. There was no way she could have survived that avalanche and then marched all the way up here, on her own, clearly injured. This had to be a trick, maybe his imagination, wishful thinking. Maybe he had been injured worse than he thought and was hallucinating due to blood loss. It was entirely, completely, utterly impossible. And yet...

The figure stopped short just a few steps out of the passage, had noticed him there. He met her gaze, bright eyes wide with a mix or shock, surprise and relief. She sobbed. Cullen pulled back his hood to see better and stepped closer. And he heard his name fall from her lips.

“Cullen,” her voice cracked, broken in her throat, but it was hers.

“She’s here! She’s alive!!” he called back, and as the words came, he dropped his sword and shield carelessly into the snow and marched up to her as fast as he could. She sobbed, and laughed, and then she collapsed. He ran now, ran to catch her when her knees gave in and sat in the snow, her hands clinging to him, his arms wrapped around her. He held her, her body was real, flesh and blood, no figment of his imagination. He felt tears well up in his eyes, tried to gulp them down even though it was painful to do. He held her close, cradled her head in his hand, held her against him. She cried, and he thanked the Lady and the Father for watching over her. For without their protection, how could she have survived the mountain’s wrath an the sky’s anger that had swallowed the valley she had just left behind?

“You found me…” she finally whispered, her voice so weak, so small. He laughed, and as he did the tears burst from his eyes.

“Of course I found you. I will always find you…” he whispered to her, pressed his lips to her hair as he rocked her in his arms.

He felt her go limp, her hands dropping from where they had clung to his coat, and it triggered every alarm in him. He pulled away to look at her. Her eyes had fallen shut and as he moved her, her head rolled back. “No! Ros! No! You have to stay a-”

He glanced down. He noticed something warm and wet coating his hand and… blood was pouring from a deep wound in her side, it had soaked her clothes almost completely through and was now bleeding over him too. “No! I won’t let you die like this! Not after I found you!”

She yet drew breath. He could see the small puffs of air rising from her lips with every shallow breath. So he slipped out of his own furs, wrapped her up in them and cradled her in his arms. He carried her back to where the rest of the scouts waited, all of them staring in disbelief as the thane returned with the Marked One.

“That’s impossible…” the Seeker whispered.

“That’s a miracle,” Mia corrected.

“She’s bleeding, and she’s half frozen to death. We need to get her to camp right now!” Cullen yelled at them. And they ran. They wasted no time with caution, they made their way down the path as fast as the terrain allowed it. And when they came rushing back into camp, they had about the impact of an explosion. People were shouting and running, the word spread like a wildfire. The Herald was alive. The girl blessed by the Lady had survived the rage of the mountain and the sky itself and emerged victorious against even a dragon.

Cullen carried her to his tent, the first place he could think of, and was already awaited by the augur there, and a healer of the Chantry, an older, orlesian woman who had previously introduced herself as Mother Giselle. They waited for him to lay her down on his bedroll, and then they ordered him out, while the two of them used magic and craft to tend to the wounded woman. And Cullen waited. Outside the tent he paced, while they worked inside, not leaving even once. He watched as both Avvar and Andrastians came to the tent, went to their knees and prayed, each in their languages, with either their prayers to the Lady, the Father, or the Maker and Andraste. For once, there was no infighting, there was no arguments on whose beliefs were more legitimate than the others. They all shared a common wish: to see their Herald, their Marked One, emerge from that tent alive and well.

And after a good two hours, with the sun already in the sky again, the augur parted the fabric at the entrance of the tent and asked him wordlessly to enter. Cullen followed. The tent was warm inside, and Róisín lay on his bedroll, wrapped in the warmest furs they had. Her dirty, bloodied clothes were in a pile in a corner and he could see bare shoulders peek out from the furs. Her face was cleaned, and the rosy colour was slowly returning to her cheeks. Her breath had steadied, and she seemed asleep, rather than unconscious and dying.

“Will she…?”

“She will be fine. She is much stronger than she looks,” the augur said with a smile and brushed a strand of dark hair from Róisín’s face with her thin fingers.

“We have done all we could. Now it is up to her to wake up. We agreed that… you probably want to be with her when she does,” the Chantry priestess said, exchanging a look with the augur. She spoke in a heavy accent, but her voice was kind and calm and hopeful. Enough for him. Cullen nodded and as the two women gathered their healing equipment and left the tent, he sat down at Róisín’s side. He took her unmarked hand between his and held it close to his heart, stroked the back of it with his thumb, then brushed his fingers through her hair. Not once did he take his eyes of her. Not once did he stop thanking the Gods for having returned her to him safely.


	13. The Dawn Will Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mildly nsfw elements in this chapter. 
> 
> As you may have noticed, I have changed the rating of this fic to be pretty vague because there will be some nsfw stuff coming up in a few chapters (duh, they were going to do it eventually :P) But I will warn you about any explicit contents in the notes always, so you don't stumble into it all too unprepared.

When Ros came to her senses, she was not entirely sure where or how. She lay covered in warm furs, and she felt (and smelled) clean again. Someone had taken her dirty, torn, bloodied clothes off her and washed her hair and face, taken care of the wound at her side and of her surely broken foot. She pulled up a fur to cover herself as she sat up slowly, and immediately the person next to her stirred. At first she was surprised, almost scared. But that passed quickly when she realised who was lying next to her, an arm draped over her waist.

Cullen was sleeping, his breath steady and with the quietest, softest little snore she knew so well already. His arm was heavy and warm over her and he lay so close, his nose must have been brushing her hair when she had still been lying down. His curly, golden hair was wild around his face. He had discarded of his lion mane and his warm coat. Carefully, she leaned over, propped up on one elbow, and stroked her marked hand along his cheek, fingers brushing through wayward curls. This had to be a dream. She might have died on that mountain after all. If this was the bosom of the Maker – as the Chantry had taught her where they would go in death – then it was a good place. There was nowhere she would rather be than next to him.

He blinked, suddenly alert to the touch on his face, and he looked up. His golden eyes were warm and soft from slumber and when he met hers, a smile curled up his lips. His arm tightened around her waist and he squeezed her close against his body, made her lean down. Their lips met in a slow, gentle kiss. Her eyes fluttered close. Maker, she loved the way he kissed her. Slow, considerate, patient, almost infuriatingly so. His other arm moved around her, held her closer and made her lie half on top of him and his hands stroked the bare skin of her back. Much like she had imagined in those last few memories of her hike up the mountain pass.

She pulled her lips away, not because she wanted to, but because she heard arguing outside the tent.

“What’s going on?” she asked in a whisper. He did no reply immediately. His eyes opened slowly, sleepily, and his hand came to caress her hair. He watched her features, seemed to commit them to memory, his thumb brushed over her lips before he tilted her chin to kiss him again.

“The Nightingale, the Seeker, and the Scribe. They are trying to decide where to take the Inquisition from here,” he whispered against her lips, before pulling her down into another kiss. More heated this time, with his fingers entwined in her hair, pulling her against him. His tongue languidly stroked over her lower lip, drawing a soft moan from her. It had suddenly gotten very, very warm in here, the air she was breathing felt like fire, burning her from within, a heat that fluttered in her stomach and pooled between her thighs. When her lips parted to catch a breath, he caught her lower lip between his teeth and he slightly propped himself up to reach around her and pull her fully on top of him, one leg down each side of his hips. Naked skin touched naked skin. She could tell he wore little other than his loincloth, and all she had to her name right now was the hide she had clutched to her chest, now lying between their bodies. Other than that, she was naked as the Maker had made her, and acutely aware of it. As much as she enjoyed the feeling of his bare chest under her hands, and the sensation of her lips being pulled back into his kiss with his teeth before his tongue smoothed over the sensitive flesh where he hat nibbled, and the feeling of his hips bucking up against her so she could feel his hardened manhood between them (and Maker knew, she enjoyed it all _very_ much), she pulled away.

She sat up, pulled her leg back to herself and sat on her knees with the hide wrapped around her.

“I… feel like I should be part of the yelling…” she contemplated.

Cullen sat up, one hand on her shoulder and the other came to her bandaged side.

“You are injured, and in no shape to fight anything or anyone. You need rest,” his voice was low, a soft growl, and so close she could feel the vibration of the tone come from his body. Not helping. She worried at her lower lip, could still feel his little bite there, and as she did, he moved closer. “Róisín…” he breathed her name. She sighed.

“I… I won’t get any rest like this. Please… I feel useless and like a burden. I want to be part of this.”

He sighed and leaned away, rubbed his large hands over his face.

“Alright. There’s clean clothes for you. But the healers made it very clear to me that you are not to move around too much, in case your wound reopens. And also not walk too much, because your leg will need time to heal properly.”

“I will be careful,” she assured. He watched her, an intense glow in his golden eyes that drove a blush into her cheeks. But then he broke the connection, leaned over to press his lips to her bare shoulder once.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” he whispered. He then got to his feet, in all his glory, truly only the loincloth covering his manhood and she could see, from the large bulge of the hide, how hard he was. It made her look away, mildly embarrassed and very aroused. She heard him slip into leather trousers and his coat, his lion mane and then he stepped out of the tent. Ros let go of the breath that she had held on to and let herself fall back into the many furs. There had been many things she had thought would happen – on the very top of her list had been ‘dying alone, frozen to death on the mountain pass’. Not very high up on the list, but very high up on wishful thinking had been ‘waking up in Cullen’s arms’. Naked Cullen? She had not even dared wish as much. Yet here she was. She giggled quietly to herself at the thought of his hands on her skin, licked her lips to savour the taste of his kisses. Kisses she thought they would never get to share again. But by some miracle, she had been given more time. And she would use that time wisely, she promised herself that.

Finally, she slipped out of the warm furs and the chilly air from the tent entrance hit her naked skin, made her shudder, and made her aware of the slickness between her legs. Maker’s breath she was aroused! Had the three Inquisition leaders not been fighting outside their tent, and had she not been injured still, she would have let him finish what he had started, what they had no doubt been heading for. Although, if she was quite honest with herself, she knew those were poor excuses for her chickening out of that intimacy. Not because she did not _want_ him! She wanted him more than she ever thought she could want someone. But because she was… intimidated, and perhaps a little scared, of letting someone so close to her again.

Her track record with sexual partners was not particularly good, and she thought about all of that, alone in the tent now.

She had fooled around with a fellow apprentice in the Circle when they had been both sixteen and bored. Daniel. He failed his Harrowing and was killed by the Templars just a month after she passed her own Harrowing when they were 17.

Then there had been a Templar, one of Rheon’s contemporaries. Rothrick. Young, strapping, with his golden crown of hair and his bright blue eyes and the charming smile. They barely talked, she had always been shy, even as an apprentice when she had first noticed him. Then when she had become an Enchanter, during her first week in the new robes, they had run into each other in the library one night and despite little talking, there had been shy touches, shy kisses, and eventually they had ended up in a dark, quiet corner high in one of the towers, entwined in a night of passion. After that came secret smiles exchanged, whispers with his lips brushing against her ears, telling her how beautiful she was, how much he adored her, everything a young woman wanted to hear from hrt knight in shining armour, fingertips brushing against each other on the hallway in passing, nights stolen away from their respective quarters to indulge in each other, never with much conversation, just passionate kisses, hungry touches, muffled moans and cries of pleasure. Then when the Circle fell, he was among the Templars leading the slaughter. She remembered seeing him, drenched in the blood of children, apprentices, with a satisfied smile on his face. He saw her, and reached out to her, yelled her name, ordered her to stay, and all she wanted to do was vomit. That she had let this man, so eager to kill innocent _children,_ touch her, kiss her, it made her feel filthy and abused. If he had so little regards for these children’s lives, what had she been to him? A plaything, entertainment, something to pass the time with while doing the boring duties of Templar life that did not involve killing? She never saw him again after she and the others escaped the Circle.

And then there had been Paul. _Maker_ , she had fallen for Paul, hard and unexpected.

An Enchanter of Ostwick’s Circle, like her. An elf, sweet, soft spoken, caring, fiercely protective of the apprentices they had saved together. They had all been on the run, they had all been scared and lonely and in desperate need for comfort and companionship. And one night, sitting by the fire, they had kissed, more accidentally. After that, she kept thinking of him, and as time passed she came to admit that she may be in love with him. And when she went to tell him, he fell to his knees before her, kissed her hands and told her he had been in love with her longer than he could ever admit and thought she would never consider him worthy of her, just an elf. They had talked all night, and many nights after that until they finally shared a bed, away from the rest of their camped out apostates. Under the stars he had made love to her, and it was everything the books made it out to be. Gentle and loving and sweet, his hands and lips more skilled than Daniels, and more considerate and concerned with her pleasure than Rothrik had ever been. Then, she had been entirely certain Paul would be the man she would spend the rest of her life with, the one she should have been with all this time. A life as apostates on the run did not seem so grim and dark with the thought of sharing it with him. A man who respected her, admired her, loved her. But then…

Then he was the first of their group to fall to temptation, the first to turn into an abomination. She remembered watching, unable to look away, remembered screaming his name, begging for him to come back to her when his skin began boiling, his bones began twisting out of shape, as the beast took over, as he turned into the monstrosity the Circle always warned them about. She remembered as he was struck down by Templars and fell, the last glimpse of life in his eyes, the eyes she remembered, looking at her, begging for forgiveness from her. And that memory still sat deep in her bones. It had been then that she decided never to use Blood Magic again, never to bring herself closer to what had become of Paul than she was then. And she had kept too it, no matter how hard it was sometimes.

Of the three men who had ever touched her in such an intimate way, just one was still alive - although with what had happened to the Templar order according to Cassandra, that was as much speculation as anything. She had been certain that after Paul, there would be no one else she could ever feel that way about again. And she was scared that if she did, it would only end in tragedy again. What if she was cursed to always loose the men she let into her life?

And that was quite possibly what had kept her from being with Cullen right now, no matter how much she wanted him. She was scared. Always scared.

She slipped into her clean clothes quickly and then got to her feet. Putting pressure on her right foot was painful, so she was careful as she left the tent. Cullen was waiting just outside, gazes meeting when she stepped out and he offered his arm to help her walk. She took it reluctantly, although she wanted to feel his warmth nearby. They walked together, only few steps to where the three women had argued just moments earlier. By now, Cassandra, Josephine and Leliana had retreated each to their corner and Ros stood alone. Mother Giselle stepped to her side, a hand on her arm and smiled.

“It is good to see you standing. The people need that,” she said.

“I am not sure how much help I can be.”

“I have seen men and women from all religions flock to your tent when you were recovering, praying for your health and for their Gods to watch over you. That is what you can do.”

“I don’t know how much that will help us against Corypheus.”

“Corypheus is a trial. All great leaders face trials.”

Ros stood silent for a moment, holding closer onto Cullen’s arm before she looked back at the Chantry priestess.

“Did he… tell the truth? Could he be truly one of the magisters who tainted the Golden City?”

“It does not matter what he is. Only what he believes. Just as it does not matter who you are, just what _you_ believe.”

“I want to believe… but… after everything that happened… everything I’ve seen…”

Mother Giselle nodded.

“Let me tell you what I have seen. What all of us have seen. We saw our chosen hero sacrifice herself to save us. Like Andraste threw herself to the flames, you met the beast in that valley and gave yourself to deliver us. We all saw that. And you know what else we saw? We saw you return, we saw you rise from the destruction, and we see you now, standing among us again. No one here, not a single person, doubts that you have been touched. We do not know by what or by who, but that does not matter. Your part in this is not yet over, and that is what we have seen. It began with your mark,” Mother Giselle explained and took Ros’ left. The mark had calmed, but looking at it again she remembered what had happened in that cave, the new power she had discovered. “But it ends with you.”

Ros closed her hand, pulled it away.

“I… _want_ to believe that. But right now… we are lost in the mountains, we have no home, we are hunted by an ancient Darkspawn and an Archdemon… I am not sure I can believe that we will somehow… get through all this,” she whispered. “I guess… I guess I am… scared.”

Mother Giselle smiled at her gently.

“There is no shame in fear. If anything, fear proves you recognise the danger we face. But the brave do the right thing, _despite_ their fear. Andraste went through dark years of trials and tribulations before the light of the Maker led her to salvation. And so will you.”

With these word, the priestess stepped away and towards the fire pit. Ros stayed behind, glancing at the mark on her hand, the mark that had started it all. The anchor.

She looked up when she heard a low voice fall into song. Lyrics she knew well, a part of the Chant of Light they had often sung during mass in the Circle. A song about the darkness of a long night and a perilous journey through that night, with the hope and certainty of the oncoming dawn. Mother Giselle stood by the fire, her back to Ros and Cullen, and had begun to sing. Her voice drew the attention of many, turning their gaze to her, while lost in their own contemplation.

The first voice to join Mother Giselle was the Nightingale. Known throughout Thedas for her lovely voice, the Left Hand of the Divine added her clear, strong soprano to the song, and as she did, more and more joined in. Until many Andrastians had gathered around the fire, chanting their hymn of hope.

Ros could not join them. Not because she did not want to believe in it, but because right now she could just not see the hope they saw. Right now, she was not as convinced as they were that this night would ever end. So she stayed silent, as did the Avvar, lost in their own reflections of the events in Haven. She leaned her head against Cullen’s shoulder and he covered her marked hand with his, gentle and protective.

The song had not yet finished when Solas appeared behind them. He had approached silent, his soles leaving barely a trace in the snow and had he not carefully reached for Ros’ arm, she would have never even known he was there.

“May I have a word?” he asked. His glance wandered to Cullen. “Alone?”

“Of course,” Ros said as she gently pried her arm from Cullen.

“Are you certain?” he asked, glancing menacingly at the elven mage. Ros nodded.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. When Cullen looked down at her with a brow raised sceptically, she smiled. She put a hand on his cheek. “I’ll be alright. I promise.”

He nodded reluctantly and then let her leave with the elf, she felt his gaze follow them as they moved away from the camp.

When the darkness grew deeper around them, Solas lit a torch of blue fire like she had seen him do before. In elegant steps, he walked around it and once the flames were between them, he turned to face her. His hands folded in his back and the blue light cast shadows on his face that made him look stern and determined.

“Their hopefulness is commendable, but you have seen the true threat. Are you as optimistic as they are, that the dawn will come?” he asked.

“I… wish I were…” she admitted. Solas nodded.

“So I thought…” he said and looked down at the fire. “A Darkspawn magister, seeking to conquer the Black City and proclaim himself a God… I wonder… the anchor you stole from him, it would have to be able to tear open the veil and allow you to physically step through. Have you noticed such a power?” he asked.

Ros glanced down at the mark on her hand. Of course she had. Of course she knew the anchor had been successful in its purpose and she knew that if she had wanted to, she would have been able to step through the Fade. But…

“No. I don’t know… He said I interrupted the ritual, maybe the anchor was not completed. He said I spoilt its purpose…” she lied. And he knew. She could see it in his face, in the way his eyes narrowed and a hand came to rub over his pronounced chin. But he did not push the issue. Instead he nodded.

“I see… I have brought you here because I hoped we could talk in private. I believe you and I have a common interest in stopping Corypheus.”

“I think we all have that interest…” Ros said confused.

“Certainly. But for you and I, it is somewhat more… _urgent_ than the rest of them. You heard him. He will not suffer a rival, he will stop at nothing to wipe you from existence. He attacked Haven to get his hands on you and he will not rest until you are dead. Your only hope of survival is striking first, getting to him before he can get to you. You want him gone, more than anyone back there.”

“Fair enough. But what is in that for you?”

He was silent for a moment, then started pacing back and forth.

“The orb he carries… I saw it from far. I have seen artefacts like it before, during my dream journeys in the Fade. The orb… is elvhen. It is an artefact of my people, of ancient time, long before the fall of Arlathan. It is a focus – much like the staves we mages use nowadays, but exponentially more powerful. An artefact of such power would easily be able to tear open the veil for good. I do not know how Corypheus came by it, but… if it becomes known that an artefact of my people was involved in the murder of the Divine… you can imagine the consequences?”

Ros nodded slowly. The relations between humans and elves were tense to begin with. The Exalted Marches had driven the elves to the brink of extinction because the Andrastians had not tolerated their ‘heathen’ beliefs next to their own. And had she been asked two years ago, Ros would have probably agreed. But her recent experiences put their struggle into a new perspective. Having lived on the run with no property and constant fear of prosecution, she saw the elves who had survived like this for centuries in a very different light. She looked at the elves who were kept as slaves in Tevinter, at the elves who were forced to live in overcrowded, poverty-wrecked alienages in human cities, and at the fierce Dalish elves who inhabited the wilderness, leading a nomadic life, clinging to whatever remnants of their culture they could - and she felt ashamed of her own ignorance and the privilege she had grown up in turning her blind to their struggles.

The last thing the elves needed was a horde of zealous Andrastians convinced the murder of the Divine had been instigated by elves. The last things the elves needed was another Exalted March, elves being slaughtered in their homes. For them, this could very well mean the extinction of their race.

“I thought you did not identify with the elves…”

“I do not. But they are _still_ my people and I do not wish to be the only one left. So, you see, I too have a personal interest in stopping Corypheus. I wanted us to be on the same page for that.”

“What do you propose we do about it?”

“As I understand Cassandra informed you of the documents we recovered in Therinfall Redoubt? The Venatori plan to sow chaos in Orlais by murdering their Empress, and then they will march to conquer the south with an army of demons. Judging from their desire for chaos I assume chaos is what this orb needs to unleash its power. Even if it is just hypothetical chaos. The murder of the Divine would lead to chaos among the Chantry. It seems triggering such a chaotic event is what activates the orb. Killing the Empress of Orlais and marching on unprepared nations will trigger chaos. We know he wishes to return the Imperium to its former glory, so his plans will not have changed. Now he will use these plans to sow the chaos he needs to activate the orb once more. We need to stop him.”

“And how do you propose we do that? We live in tents, we have no resources, the Chantry hates us, we have no credibility, no one will believe us if we tell them an ancient Tevinter magister is planning world domination,” Ros said, shaking her head.

“Not like we are now, no. What we need to do – and what we need _you_ to do – is make the Inquisition a force to be reckoned with. We need to build this organisation up, need to multiply its power, its influence. It needs to rise from its ashes. And it needs you for that.”

“What about you?”

“I will help you control the power of the anchor. I understand the Fade better than most people you will find, be they Andrastian or Avvar. I will teach you everything I know and you will learn to control this power, rather than letting it consume you. Even with the Breach closed, the magic in your mark is still a terrible one and using it carelessly could cost your life. You can’t die. Not before Corypheus is stopped. This world, and everyone in it, need you.”

Ros nodded slowly. His words made sense. They were terrifying thoughts, but they made sense.

“I understand. But we’re still a bunch of refugees in tents…”

Solas nodded and his gaze wandered past her.

“I believe the thane has a solution for that problem…” he said.

Ros turned around. Cullen stood just outside the light of the blue fire and at Solas’ words, he stepped closer.

“I… wanted to make sure you are safe…” he admitted, looked almost ashamed, like a kicked pup. Ros smiled and came towards him, took his hand. Cullen looked up towards Solas. “You speak of Skyhold?”

The elf nodded.

“What’s Skyhold?” Ros asked. Cullen looked down at her and caressed her cheek with a smile.

“It’s my home,” he said, then he looked up again. “And it is exactly what your Inquisition needs.”


	14. Skyhold

“But… what is it?” Cassandra repeated her question. The group had gathered in a large, open tent: The Seeker, the diplomat, the Nightingale, the elf – Solas, Róisín, and Cullen himself. Mia had joined, though she only stood to the side, waiting for their decision.

Although in his mind, there was no question to the decision. Skyhold was the only solution to the problems they faced now, and Solas seemed to agree with him.

“A fortress. Ancient, and believed mythical by many. It was built by the elves of old, many ages ago. Tarasyl’an Te’las, they called it. The place which held back the sky. When Arlathan fell, the fortress was forgotten, lost in time along with the rest of this great civilisation. It was torn down, and rebuilt by ancient Almarri tribesmen and has been occupied by different parties ever since,” Solas explained. Cullen nodded grimly. He turned to Róisín.

“Do you remember when I told you of Ser Barris’ ancestor, who drove my family and tribe from the shores of Lake Calenhad?” he asked. Ros nodded. “After that, we have been living a nomadic life, forced back into the harsh Frostback Mountains. It was a time of much turmoil in Ferelden. But then… my mother’s grandmother, who went down in our tribe’s history as Esher the Mother, discovered the abandoned fortress ruin high in the north. She took her tribe there, and they made a home for themselves for the first time in centuries. My mother was among the first generation born there, the first of our tribe to bear the name _O Skyhold_. She later became the first thane there, a warlord who defended the hold against many rivalling tribes who sought to conquer the fortress for themselves. She became known as Ethel the Unvanquished, a legend among all Avvar tribes. I became the second thane of Skyhold, ten years ago.”

“Ten years? You… must have been very young,” Ros noted.

“I was. But it was… necessary.”

The way she looked at him, he could tell she was waiting to hear more. But his tongue seemed tied down, numb, uncooperative with his own mind.

He wanted to tell her. About his mother and her passing, about him becoming thane, about Skyhold, about what it all meant. Truly, he wanted to share this with her, wanted her to understand him, to understand why he feared losing her so much. But no words wanted to form in his mouth. He stood silent next to her, teeth clutched together, fists tight. She saw something was wrong, he knew from the way she kept watching him, the way her brows began to form a frown. That he avoided looking at her did not help with her suspicion, he guessed, but he just… could not look at her. Because he did not know what to say to her, did not know how to explain himself adequately.

“So, a fortress. How big is it, will it be able to host us all?” Cassandra asked sceptically.

“It’s big enough, believe me,” Cullen assured the Seeker.

“And you would welcome us there?” Josephine Montilyet asked, sounded surprised. Cullen nodded.

“We have a common enemy in Corypheus, and Róisín is under my protection. If my hold is what is needed to protect her from him, then so it must be.”

Cassandra nodded.

“I see where you come from. Can you take us to Skyhold?”

“We can. It is a long journey from here, not everyone will make it. But we will bring everyone we can,” Cullen confirmed. The Seeker nodded and she turned towards the Nightingale and the diplomat. Soon, the three women dispersed, headed out of the open tent to prepare for the upcoming journey as best as they could, as many as they could. And when Solas left, it was only him and Róisín left.

“Cullen,” she whispered as she took his hands. He shook his head.

“Another time, I promise,” he assured her. Because he knew the question at the tip of her tongue. _What happened to you_? _What made you who you are_?

He placed a hand over her cheek and leaned down, pressed his lips against her forehead. Her skin was so soft and warm under his touch, as if the cold of the mountain did not reach her at all. “Let’s go, we have some preparing to do.”  

* * *

They travelled north. With little rations, and less rest, the Avvar led them through the mountains that were their home. Over snowy peaks, through echoing valleys, through treacherous passes, further and further away from any of their familiar territories.

Cullen had made a grand gesture of peace to the Inquisition, and the Andrastians, and he was not entirely sure why.

No, wrong.

He knew _exactly_ why. All he had to do was turn towards that woman by his side. She was his reason. He did not do this for them, he could not possibly care less about the Inquisition. He did it for her. For Róisín. Because she believed it was her responsibility to carry this Inquisition forward and to stop this magister – a mess the Chantry had made itself. Somehow, she had taken that burned, and he knew she needed help, knew that no one should carry such a burden alone. And if that meant giving Skyhold to the Inquisition, then that was what would happen.

The road north was a familiar one, even though he had not travelled it in years. Milestones, carved from dark granite, marked their path, so old no one even remembered who had first found this road. The hold they were travelling to was ancient, just as Solas had said. Skyhold was the throne of the world, his mother had taught him that and it was how he had always treated the keep. With respect and reverence.

The march was long, and every day took them over a higher peak than the day before. Until finally, Skyhold could be seen in the distance. Mia was scouting ahead and as she reached the crest of a mountain, she signalled the company to stop. Cullen knew what she had spotted, and he joined Róisín who was talking with Josephine.

“I want to show you something,” he interrupted, when the two women stopped for a breath. Róisín looked up at him surprised, but then smiled and nodded.

They had only few opportunities in the past weeks of the strenuous journey to share a quiet moment together. She spent most of her days helping the younger members of the Inquisition, and she worked together with their mages to heal wounded soldiers. She spent much time with Dorian, the Tevinter mage who had joined them in Haven, and with Vivienne, a glamorous mage from the orlesian court. And she spent less and less time with the tribe, to the point where Rosalie, of all the people, admitted that she missed her company. And he missed it to. Gods, he missed her.

She still stayed in his tent most nights, but she came there so late and tired she basically stumbled in and fell asleep right away, giving them no time to talk, and in the mornings she got up early to continue where she had left off the night before. He hoped to change that in Skyhold. But for now, to see her smile at him was enough. He helped her climb the tricky terrain Mia had easily overcome and they reached the crest of the mountain.

There it lay, in the distance, and the sight took her breath away. Even to him it was overwhelming a sight after so long. The massive walls of the ruin towered dark atop the blue glacial ice and snowy peaks. Its roofs and towers were partially hidden in clouds, and in other parts the sun reflected in broken, stained glass windows. The fortress was enormous. Even seen from far it looked the part, but once they were there, they would only truly grasp the dimensions of the hold. It was a place built to last, walls withstanding not only the unforgiving hand of time, but any war that may have waged here in the centuries before his tribe had settled there.

“Cullen… this is incredible…” Róisín whispered in awe. He nodded.

“I know Solas told you about the history of this place. We believe it a little different. We say Korth himself carved it from the ancient stone, it is the heart of the mountain and was his gift to the Lady. The throne of the world,” he explained, then he turned and offered his hand to her, to help her climb back to the path that would lead them directly to the only gate in the walls of the castle. He looked up to meet her gaze. “Now, it will be yours.”

“Why do you do this? This must be so important to your family and your tribe, why share this with us,” she asked, reluctantly put her hand in his. And let him guide her down the slippery rocks.

“I am not sharing it with them. I am sharing it with _you_. The Inquisition is welcome in our hold as long as you wish for them to be there. All it takes is one word from you and they will be gone. This is for you. It’s my gift… to you,” he said when she stood right in front of him, tips of their boots touching and she looked up at him with wide, moonlight eyes. She gasped, and he saw a blush creep into her cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold wind. She looked away, seemed embarrassed at her own blush.

“I… I don’t know what to say…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said, shaking his head. He wanted to reach out, sought to touch her skin, brush his thumb over her lips, draw her into a kiss. But she had already turned away and stepped down to the path.

He missed her lips. They had barely shared a single kiss since that night back in the valley, since his desire for her had very nearly burned him up, consumed him. He longed for her to kiss him again, to feel hear warm breath, taste her lips, hear that delicate little moan she could not control whenever they got close enough. But nothing had happened, and while he had not been quite certain before, right now he saw it clear as day.

She was avoiding him.

And he feared it was his fault. For not being forward with her about his home, his family, his past. Had he pushed too far, gone too fast, demanded too much of her too soon? He hoped they would find time to talk about this once they were behind those protective walls of the hold, once they had time to settle in the castle.

Over the next hours, they marched closer to the fortress, then eventually crossed the glacier over the ancient stone bride leading to the portcullis of the castle. The drawbridge had been pulled – by their own hands no less – and the only way into the fortress now was by overcoming the deadly chasm the bridge would normally cover.

Mia and three of her best hunters were already preparing to cross the chasm, using sharp hooks they would shoot over the battlements, then climb the ropes to cross into the fortress. It took about another half hour for the drawbridge to move, achingly slow the old, solid wood started to come down towards them. The portcullis was being pulled up and they entered through the outer ring of walls and the first pair of towers. Within these first walls, the Inquisition started setting up their first tents, while the Avvar opened the second gate. The noise of creaking gears and metal scared up swarms of birds that had settled in the ruins, they circled the ancient fortress, their calls echoing over the mountain. And they finally stepped into the lower courtyard of Skyhold.

The fortress was hauntingly quiet in the first few minutes of their arrival, until the first children started running into the halls, until the first Avvar climbed the towers and raised the knotted banners of their tribe. The first bowls of fire were lit and laughter and chatter filled the stone walls.

It was not as he remembered it. Had it been this fallen apart last time they had been here? Had that arch over there collapsed recently?

“We’ll have to clear that out…” Branson contemplated as he stepped past his older brother and inspected the rubble.

“I will light the beacon, perhaps the rest of the tribe will return if they learn we have reclaimed Skyhold,” Mia said, slipped into her bow and climbed up ahead. Cullen nodded weakly. The rest of the tribe, the other parties of hunters they had sent out. They would have re-joined them in a few months’ time, when winter came and they would look for a safe place to spend those cold months. But what better a place to sit out the winter than Skyhold?

“There’s more of the tribe out there?” Róisín asked. Cullen nodded. They climbed the crumbling stone steps together, resilient ivies and moss overgrowing some of the stones. They reached the upper courtyard, then climbed up towards the mead hall, from where they could overlook the people gathering within the walls and see above the battlements and onto the glacier. There were hundreds of them. As he suspected, they would not all fit, so tents would have to be set up outside the castle. Skyhold may be enormous, but many rooms were ruins and uninhabitable and many others were occupied by his tribesmen. They would have to make do.

“We usually split up over the summer months, different hunting parties. We stay in contact by raven, much like the Inquisition… The beacon however is an old sign that the thane has returned to his hold. If there are scouts in the area, they will see it and inform the rest of our tribe. Soon, they will all return.”

He turned from overlooking the courtyard towards the large, winged gate. He lift up the wooden bar blocking the entrance, then pushed open the two wings, letting light fall into the enormous hall beyond.

The mead hall was the largest hall of the entire castle. A high ceiling, and the best preserved stained glass windows they had in both the front and back wall of the enormous ship. Wooden benches and tables were lined up along its length and on a dais stood a large stone throne, carved in the shape of a sun shining down on the mountains, with the mountains carved to resemble large beasts. The stone seat was cushioned with furs and there were two fire bowls to each side of it. More such bowls were scattered across the hall. The hall was cold and damp now, dusty from being vacant so long. He would change that. Every bench was covered with furs and cushions too, and heavy, painted hide hung from the walls, wrapped in knotted rope. The air still smelt of cold wood smoke, garbed leather, fur, herbs and meat.

“It’s magnificent…” Róisín whispered.

“Every fur, every banner, even the throne, all were gifts from other tribes to my mother. She was the closest to a Queen the Avvar have ever had,” Cullen explained. His gaze wandered towards the throne and he remembered Ethel An-Theodora O Skyhold. Ethel the Unvanquished, in rough leather garb, a mane of golden curls cascading over her shoulders. He remembered her sharp features – a jawline you could cut yourself on, a nose broken at least twice in battle, scars across her cheeks and eyes like fire. He remembered her rough laugh that had once filled these halls and had captured anyone who had come to see her. A thane worthy of the title, a warlord blessed by Hakkon himself. Now her great mead hall lay in dust and shadows.

He turned towards a group of men who had entered behind them. “I want this cleaned up. I want the fires lit, and a feast tonight!” he ordered. They nodded.

“Aye, my thane!”

The men rushed away and got to work, while he and Róisín stayed behind. He turned towards her, watched quietly as she was busy looking around the mead hall, seemed almost… awestruck, dare he say. He was relieve to see it and it made him smile. Once her gaze returned to him, he nodded towards a door.

“I want to show you something.”

He took her unmarked hand and led her with him. They took the two steps of the dais and walked past the throne towards the door on the left hand side of it. He opened it, the hinges whining under the unexpected strain. They would need to oil that. They would need to oil quite a lot in this old place.

Cool wind howled through the stairwell of the highest tower of the castle and they started climbing the creaking, wooden steps that had been set up here years ago after parts of the stonework had collapsed. They crossed through the small chamber that built the entrance to where he was leading her, and then climbed up the stone steps into a separate chamber. This was the largest living quarter in the castle, a spacious chamber with two balconies overlooking the entire castle and glacier. A large bed stood against one of the walls, stone carved posts showing mighty lions and a sun on the backrest. It was covered in furs and cushions and blankets. The bed offered a view of a fireplace, cold now, with moist wood sitting beside it. The stained glass windows, though most of them was barred close by wooden planks now, showed the circle of the moon and sun passing over the northern mountains.

Cullen left her side as she stood at the top of the stairs and he broke down the wood covering the windows and the access to the two large, stone balconies. As light of the setting dun fell through the coloured glass into the chambers, they were dipped in beautiful light, creating a warm, welcoming atmosphere.

“It’s lovely. The view is… breath-taking…” Róisín noted as she wandered around the room.

“It will be yours.”  

She turned towards him, slightly perplexed.

“Mine?” she inquired. He nodded.

“I figured you would enjoy a bit of… privacy, after sharing a tent for so long. No one will get past the throne unnoticed, so no one can sneak up to you. You will be perfectly safe. I’ll get dry wood and get the fireplace running right away, it will be warm in no time. And sound hardly carries up here, so you won’t be disturbed by the everyday goings in the courtyard. You are of course free to go wherever you please but… if you wish to retreat and be for yourself… this is where you can do it.”

She wandered around the room and he watched her. He watcher as she inspected the carved stone lions, the fireplace, the stained glass, the two old casks of ale in the small alcove. When she looked back at him, there was a quizzical look on her features.

“This is your room, is it not?”

“It was my mother’s, then mine, briefly.” he admitted. But he had never much cared for it. Until now.

“And if I am up here… where will you be?” she asked, came closer in careful, measured steps. Her hands were behind her back and she did not look him in the eyes until she stood right in front of him and glanced up under her lashes. The most disarmingly beautiful look he had ever been at the receiving end of and he felt his throat go dry as paper. A bit of ale would be perfect right about now.

“I will probably get my bedroll in the chamber just outside, if that would make you feel safe…”

She looked away, lower lip pulled between her teeth. Then she shook her head.

“I can’t do that. I can’t sleep in your bed while you must sleep on the floor. I am sure I can find another place to retreat if I need to-”

He caught her hands and pulled her closer by them, until her palms rested against his chest.

“Róisín, I want you to feel as safe and comfortable as possible. That is the only thing that matters to me. Will you let me do that for you?”

_I can’t stay in this room._

“I…”

“Will you not look at me anymore?”

She blinked, irritated, and turned away from him, even though her left still lingered lightly on his chest, he felt the gentle pressure of her hand through the coat. “Róisín, what is wrong? You have been acting… odd… I know you have questions, I just… I need to come to terms with many things myself, things I have pushed away for years. I apologise. I do not want you to feel-”

“It’s not that,” she interrupted, shaking her head. He stepped closer, reached for her chin and made her look at him.

“Then tell me, so I understand.”

She hesitated, and looked away again, but her answer did come.

“You… make me feel things I did not think I would feel again. And… it scares me, to be honest. I am not… ready. I thought I was. Maker, I thought I was ready, and I _want_ to be. I _want_ to be with you, more than… but… every time… I remember everything that has gone wrong for me, every time I let someone that close. And I am scared it will be the same with you. I am scared to lose you.”

“You will never lose me. But… I will wait, as long as you need.”

She looked back at him.

“Is there no… other, who would be better for you? A woman of your tribe? A woman who is not so…” he saw her hands wring over her scarred wrists. “So broken?”

Broken? He took her hands, brought them to his lips and kissed the tender skin of her scars.

“You are not broken, Róisín. You are a fighter, a survivor. And there is no one I want but you,” he said, as he closed the distance between them and had her face between his hands, made her look up at him. “No one. And as long as you want me, I will be there for you.”

She smiled a soft, shy smile at his words and then she rose to the tips of her toes and brushed her lips over the scar that ripped into his upper lip. He closed his eyes at the sensation, so soft against the sensitive skin.

“Thank you... for being patient. And maybe someday you can tell me what burdens you so,” she whispered, then wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into her embrace. He returned it, arms around her waist and face buried at her neck, inhaling her scent.

They stood in this embrace long, he could barely track time, but eventually, they parted. He brushed a hand under her chin, made her look up and met her lips gently, before he stepped away.

“Make yourself at home.”

“I will,” she replied with a smile. He held onto that smile when he left her side.

* * *

Skyhold already looked very different by the time the next morning came. The fires were alight, the hearths warm, the people were settling in. His people set up their tents in the courtyards, only a few had decided to inspect the rooms of the fortress and settle there. The shamans had claimed a hut in the western corner of the upper courtyard, right behind the blacksmiths, Branson was clearing the rubble in the eastern courtyard together with a group of men, so they could set up stables for the horses of the tribe. Cullen had cleared out all rubble from the mead hall and it was beginning to look the part again. Warm, inviting, a symbol of the thane that had once held that throne. He was still reluctant to sink into it himself. He stood beside it now, sipping warm mead and watching as his people brought life back into the walls. Dirty boots left trails on the stone floor, noise and laughter and all kinds of scents filled the hall.

He had not been aware that more members of the tribe had arrived in the early morning hours, after receiving ravens, word from their scouts, or after seeing the beacon Mia had lit. But he heard the quick, light steps of children’s feet and laughter and then the voices of two children, yelling at the top of their lungs.

“Uncle! Uncle!!”

High and energetic, they echoed over the rest and Cullen put down his jug. He saw the two blond curled children run across the hall towards him and he went down with open arms as the two little ones threw themselves into him. He fell backwards laughing, the two children sitting atop him, roaring proudly, for they had brought the mightiest warrior to the ground.

“Ohhh, you won, I yield!” he declared. The little girl raised a wooden sword over her head and roared like a little lion. Her brother on the other hand, slightly older than her, wrapped an arm around his uncles neck.

“We missed you, uncle!” he said.

“Thank you for the warm welcome, Eirik, Edda,” he said. When he sat up now, with both children still in his arms, he spotted Mia and Michael enter the mead hall together. Mia was beaming and it was a joy to see. Reuniting with her husband and her children after months apart, seeing them again, healthy and safe and now protected by these walls, it had turned her into a completely different woman. She had disposed of her rough travelling garb and was now only in paint and a skirt and her long curls in a tousled mess. Michael had an arm around her shoulders and both grinned at Cullen and the children.

“Eirik! Edda! I told you to go easy on him!” Mia called laughing. Both children climbed off their uncle and apologised under their mother’s watchful eye.

Eirik, with his five summers the older one of the two, was the spitting image of his mother – the same wild blond curls, the big, brown eyes and stubby nose. Yet unlike Mia, he was a gentle natured boy, taking after his well-spoken father. And Edda, the younger of the two by a year, took after their father in appearance but their mother in temper. She was short and delicate in her features, her skin kissed by the mountain sun, leaving her covered in orange freckles, and while her hair was as curly as any of Mia’s children would ever be, it was dipped in fiery ginger, rather than the blunt gold of her mother. Her eyes were a deep green, with few golden specks in them, and she had the much straighter nose of Michael, but the slight tooth gap between her front teeth that both Mia and Cullen had when they had been children. And even as she apologised for attacking her uncle, there was a glint of mischief in her eyes, as if she were looking for the next prank to play on an unsuspecting victim.

“Did you watch over your brother and father, Edda?” Cullen asked, dishevelling his little niece’s curly hair.

“I did! I went on patrol with papa, too!” she declared.

“Did he let you yell at sleeping guards?” Cullen asked with a wink.

“Aye!” Edda confirmed with a big grin.

“Good. There will be need for a strong leader in the future, when I am too old to be thane.”

“Could I be thane?!” Edda asked excited.

“I don’t see why not,” Cullen confirmed with a grin.

“Edda, little one, you can only be thane if uncle Cullen does not have any heirs.”

“He doesn’t have any babies!”

Mia looked up from her daughter, with a suggestive grin at her brother.

“Not yet. But the way I see it, that might change sooner than you think,” she teased.

“Mia,” Cullen warned.

A ruckus outside the mead hall caught their attention – yelling and loud laughter that made Cullen march past his sister, letting her teasing go for now to see what was happening. As he stepped out, he could overlook the lower and upper courtyards. On the upper one, a group of children of the hold had gathered around a man that towered even over the tallest of the Avvar warriors. His skin was an ashen grey, and although he looked a man, the enormous horns on his head suggested otherwise. While his appearance may have instilled fear in the heart of an enemy, the children he played with in the muddy courtyard did not seem intimidated at all, as they wrestled with him playfully, then the winner would sit on his shoulders and order him around the field, before the rest of them stormed in to attack again and the game started anew.

“Well that is an unexpected sight…” Mia admitted.

“Can we play, mama, can we play pleeeeeaaaaase?!” Edda asked, excitedly tugging at her mother’s skirt.

“Go ahead.”

Both Edda and Eirik cheered excited and then ran down the stone steps – or rather ‘flew’ – to join the other children and the giant qunari in their game. Cullen laughed as he watched them and so did Mia and Michael, before his sister turned towards him. “This means much to them. To have a home,” she said. He nodded.

“It means much to all of us…”

“Will you be alright?”

He nodded again, slower this time.

“I’ll handle it.”

“You know, once word spreads that we have reclaimed Skyhold… it is only a matter of time before-”

“I’ll handle it,” he repeated, more insistent this time. Mia fell silent, then nodded. She turned back towards the children.

“How is Ros?” she finally asked, changing the subject.

“She’s settling. I hope. I gave her my rooms, so she can have more privacy.”

“Will you be alright with that? You slept better than I have seen you sleep in ten years, since she shared your tent.”

Cullen flinched a little. It was true. Her presence did calm him. Hearing her soft breaths when she slept, the certainty that when he turned around she would be there, that all he needed to do was reach out a hand to touch her warm shoulders, or brush through her hair. He would miss that. But he still believed it was better that way. If she wanted him to be with her, he would not hesitate. But he would not force her to share the bed with him.

“It will be fine.”

Mia nodded weakly.

“If you say so…”

She said, then returned her attention to the wailing in the courtyard where Edda was successfully defending her qunari mount against an onslaught of other children, by sitting on his shoulders and flailing around her wooden sword to chase the other children away. Mia grumbled and with her hands on her hips she marched down the steps. “Edda An-Mia O Skyhold! What have I told you about playing nice with others?!”

Cullen had to smirk as he watched his sister reprimand her daughter for being the little playground bully. And then his gaze wandered up to the highest tower where he had left Róisín. And by the Gods, Mia was right. He missed having her near.


	15. I am Compassion

Over the days to come, Ros settled in.

The first night in the high tower of Skyhold was one often interrupted. Up here it was so quiet that the smallest sound made her startle awake. A crack in the fireplace, when a log collapsed, eaten up by the flames. The wind rattling at the closed stained glass windows every now and then. She sat up time and again, wrapped herself in a fur and wandered over to the fireplace to replace the wood or stir up the flames a little. And the bed was surprisingly difficult to get used to. The contrast from sleeping on a bedroll – practically on the stone floor – to being surrounded by the softest cushions and most comfortable furs was difficult to adjust to. And then of course it hardly smelled of Cullen. It was the first thing she noticed. How much everything in the tent they had shared smelled of him, how comfortable that had made her feel. And how much she missed that now.

That second night, after waking up three times, she gave up on sleep entirely and instead wrapped herself up and sat down in front of the fireplace. The inability to sleep in the quiet reminded her of her first few nights in the Circle as a child. In her family’s home, she was used to sounds all around. Be it the quiet whispers of servants on the hallways who worried their conversation would disturb them, or the waves crushing into the coast below Ostwick, or the ever present sounds of the fields and forest just outside, of the stables and the work that seemed to never stop down there. The Circle had been different. The thick stone walls kept all sound awat, she could not hear the rain outside, or the wind, knew not what season it was outside. The only sounds in the Circle were the regular clamour of armour when a patrolling Templar passed the apprentice’ quarters, and the soft rustlings of a fellow apprentice turning over in their bed. Sounds she had not been used to then, so she remembered lying awake in her bed the first few nights. Wide eyed, lying very still on her back, staring at the bunk above her. It was only after a while that she was used to the new sounds and was able to find rest – maybe because by then she was so exhausted she would have very nearly fallen asleep where she stood during the day.

The next morning, she went downstairs into the mead hall to find it already full and lively. People were eating and chatting and she found Cullen standing at the side of his throne. He was leaning back against it, one arm on the stone. He wore only boots, a longer, almost skirt-like loincloth of dark hide, and his black lion’s fur, with his skin painted in the familiar colours. His features were stern, serious, intimidating in the way he overlooked the men and women gathered in the hall.

Seeing him like this made heat rise into her cheeks. Cullen was so gentle with her, she sometimes forgot just how frightening he could be. How scared she would be had they met under different circumstances. She forgot that it was only her he treated like she were made of glass, only her he touched like he feared she would break under to rough a touch. Only her.

She hesitated a moment in the door before she closed it behind her and came closer to the throne. Once he noticed her movement in the corner of his eye, Cullen’s head turned and he met her gaze.

“Good morning,” he greeted with a smile and offered his hand. She was a little reluctant, glanced out into the mead hall where a number of people had noticed her presence. Not so much the Avvar that she knew, the ones she had travelled with for weeks now. It was the ones she did not know that watched them now.

She took his hand and came closer to him. His other hand came up to her arm and he drew her close, gently pressed his lips to hers once. She closed her eyes and for a moment, nothing else mattered when he kissed her. Only his lips on hers, his tender kiss. They lingered for a moment, before she parted and he leaned back. “Have something to eat,” he offered, pointing to the food sitting to the right of the throne. He led her there, and sat down with her.

“Thank you,” she replied with a nod and took a seat on the wooden bench by his side. She picked some of the food and looked around. “I was hoping to explore the castle a little, if I may?” she asked carefully. He looked over.

“Ros, this is your home, if you want it to be. You do not have to ask my permission to explore,” he replied. She nodded and smiled. “I wish I could join you, show you around. But I am afraid I will be busy most of the day. I have been away a long while and there are many matters of the hold that need my attention…”

“I understand. I wouldn’t want you to neglect your duties. I will be fine on my own, don’t worry.”

“Perhaps… if you wish… we could meet on the western ramparts later in the afternoon? Take a walk, maybe have a bite to eat?” he suggested. Ros smiled, a small blush on her cheeks as she nodded.

“I’d like that.”

He was asking her out. It made her heart race and made warmth bubble inside of her, flutter like a whirl of butterflies in her stomach. He was asking her out, like a suitor would, if she were still noble and not a Circle mage. She had never thought she would be courted by anyone in her life. Yet here they were. Different as they may be, this felt like courtship to her. And she liked the feeling.

She finished her breakfast, watched quietly as members of the tribe brought matters before him. She suspected he had made sure she was here so she would know exactly what was happening and even though most of the conversations happened in the Avvar tongue, she picked up most of it quite well.

Finally, when she was done, she rose and bowed a little to Cullen. He held her hands briefly, pressed his lips to the back of both, then he let her go. He got up himself, and resumed his position by the side of the throne. She had never seen him sit in it, and on her way out she wondered about that, but did not think about it much beyond that.

She crossed the mead hall, and then stepped out into the sunny day. Though the sun was bright in the light blue sky, the air was cold as ice and made her shiver a little. She rubbed her hands together, breathed into them to warm them up, and then made her way down the first set of steps into the upper courtyard. Tents had been set up here, many Avvar were gathered, living together protected by the high walls of the hold. The smell of fire and metal filled the air, the sound of hammers hitting over the anvil. She approached a makeshift building, where a group of men were labouring steel into shape, crafting the rough weapons the Avvar wielded. She was not surprised to find Cassandra Pentaghast here, sharpening her own sword on a whetstone. The Seeker was lost in thoughts, did not even notice Ros as she passed.

Her exploration took her past the forge and towards a cluster of collapsed towers and old rooms. Under these ruins, a wave of odd scents blew her way. Herbs and tinctures, blood and smoke, incense and mud. As she came closer she saw figures move in the shadows and soon recognised the golden locks that could only belong to Rosalie.

“Róisín!” the thane’s youngest sister called out, when Ros was just about to turn away. She looked back, saw Rosalie climb over a collapsed wall to join her. The young shaman was covered in soot and had splatters of dry red on her hands and painted body.

“Good morning,”

“Mornin’! Join us!”

“I… wouldn’t want to imp-”

“Nonsense,” Rosalie interrupted, took her by the arm and dragged her with her into the shamans hut.

Inside, a group had gathered. Six young women, all covered in paint and with small bones or feathers weaved into their hair. The augur was preparing a brew of sorts, mumbling in tongues. A copper goblet shaped like an open skull passed around between the women and they each took a sip. As they did, their eyes rolled back in their skulls and they fell in tune with the strange murmurs of the augur.

“What are they doing?” Ros asked in a whisper towards Rosalie, still at her side.

“They consult the spirits. Spirits of knowledge, of foresight, spirits of protection and justice.”

As the goblet passed between the two shamans just before them, Rose got a glimpse of its contents. A thick, dark liquid, it smelled metallic and with the familiar sting of… lyrium. Blood and lyrium. They were entering the Fade with their minds and met spirits. This was a Harrowing. This was the very premise of the Harrowing, only they were… prepared for what they were doing, they knew what was happening. As the goblet moved on, Rosalie took it from the hands of another shaman and returned to Ros’ side. “You want to join?”

“N-no, I…”

She took a step back. She remembered the last time she had done this, had ingested processed lyrium to enter the fade. Her Harrowing, nearly eight years ago now.

_She remembered how scared she had been when she had been woken in the middle of the night, had barely a chance to slip out of her nightgown and into her robes, been dragged to the Harrowing Chamber by three Templars, half asleep, barefoot, hair in a dishevelled mess._

_She remembered First Enchanter Lydia being there, quit and solemn despite the curlers in her greying hair and a dressing gown worn over her robes and plush slippers visible under the hem. She remembered Knight-Commander Leon, the only one in the room who actually looked like he had not been thrown out of bed in the wee hours, the only one who looked like he knew what was happening. The grizzled man had a hand on his sword and watched grimly as the First Enchanter explained what would happen in the next few minutes._

_She remembered Rheon being there. His face stern, but his eyes with that confident glint she knew so well. His dark hair was dishevelled too, and he clearly had not had much time to put on his armour properly. She was pretty sure the crimson tunic under it was inside out. When she walked past him to the large bowl filled to the brim with shining, liquid lyrium, he grinned at her and whispered: “You’ll do great.” And she smiled to herself in return when she embarked on her Harrowing, that would leave her so shaken and disturbed for the rest of her life._

“Come on, it’s fun!” Rosalie insisted. Ros shook her head vehemently and the augur looked up.

“Leave her be, girl. If she is not ready we will not force her,” the old shaman said and took the skull from Rosalie. The young lioness scoffed, slightly annoyed and then took a seat in the circle of shamans. The augur handed her the skull and she, too, took a sip. She joined the other women in the trance, while Ros and the augur looked on.

“Aren’t you… afraid of possession?” she asked carefully.

“We have ways to counteract what you call possession. When we conjure spirits, it is to converse, to gain their insight and knowledge, to improve the lives of our tribe. Once the conversation is over, the spirit is released back into the realm of the Lady. We know that some spirits are… less willing to leave the physical world than others. We know their names, their faces, but in the unlikely case that one such spirit claims the body of one of our shamans, safeguards are in place.”

“You kill them?” Ros asked reluctantly. Because that sounded familiar. If a mage failed their Harrowing and became possessed, there were also ‘safeguards’ in place. Namely, a Templar who would run them through with a sword. But the augur laughed it off.

“Oh no, girl, no. We do not kill our shamans. Perhaps one day you will be able to witness the liberation ritual yourself,” she said amused. “There is not much you can do here now. But return later, if you wish to learn our craft. Until then, you may want to speak with that little spirit boy who roams the castle.”

“A… a spirit boy who roams the castle?” Ros asked perplexed.

“He came with us, all the way from the Fallow Mire. He looks like a boy, but he is not like us. He’s been watching over you and he would like to help. If you let him.”

The augur nodded outside of the hut towards the small wall at the edge of the upper courtyard, overlooking the lower one. And there, on the wall, sat a stranger. A boy, with a large hat. A hat that seemed strangely familiar. She had seen this figure before… but when? And where? Why could she not grasp the memory of him, why did it seem to slip away every time she got closer to figuring it out? Like trying to catch smoke with her bare hands.

She did not linger in the shaman’s hut, but slowly came closer to the boy sat on the wall. He watched the tents below, where the Inquisition had set up an infirmary, protected from the cold winds by the castle walls, while the rest of them set up tents just outside the castle.

Ros leaned against the wall next to the boy and glanced over. He was gaunt and pale, shadows under his eyes, thin fringes of platinum hair dangling in his face.

“What… are you doing here?”

“Watching,” the boy replied. “Looking. For the loudest. The ones who need help the most. The ones I can help.”

“You… I saw you… back in the Mire. You told me everything would be fine.”

“That, too,” the boy said, still gazing at the tents below.

“And… later… I was climbing the pass in Haven, after the Avalanche. You were there too. You helped me stand. You helped me walk. I would have… I would have perished if it hadn’t been for you.”

“I was there. I saw you fight it, I was drawn to the light, like the others…”

“Why do I keep forgetting you? I didn’t remember talking to you until… right now…”

“It’s how I help. I come, I help, I make people forget. No one wants to know there was a strange boy who knew everything about them. It scares them. So I make them forget. It’s easier that way.”

“The augur said you were a spirit. Is that true?”

“I am. But I am also not. I am… something.”

Ros stayed silent for a moment, watched the boy who had not once looked at her.

“Why do I remember now?” she finally asked.

“You have been changed. You are different, too. I don’t know what you are, but you are not like them anymore. You interrupted, and he made you different. Now he wanted to take it back, but he only made you stronger. He grows, you grow. He is strong, but you will always be as strong as he.”

“Corypheus?” she asked. The boy nodded.

“He says you don’t understand the power. But he does not understand it either. The only one who could ever become the anchor was you. It was always meant to be. They all whisper it.”

“They?”

“The spirits. The big ones. The one with wings, and the one with the many eyes. And the little ones, the ones that are drawn to your light every day. It was always meant to be you.”

“I… don’t understand…”

Finally, the boy looked away from the tents below and towards her, right at her.

“Pale, dull green. It hurts no longer, but it is there, it fills you up, pushes away your red and gold. You feel it, every waking moment. It whirls and it burns and it makes you afraid. But it also makes you strong. You fear that strength. You fear the power it gives you, because you don’t know what will happen if they learn. If they know what you can do. Are you chosen? Who did the choosing?”

Ros slowly shook her head.

“How… do you do that? How do you know what I… feel?”

“I can feel what everyone feels. I have always been that way. At first I did not understand. But then my eyes were opened and I learned what I am. I am Compassion. I feel what other’s feel and then I help them. I help them understand themselves and I help them heal on the inside. Or… I try…”

“So… you are here to help?” she asked.

“I am, if I can…”

“… Show me…”

The boy hesitated a moment, and then his gaze wandered back to the tents with the injured Inquisition soldiers. For a while, he simply watched and she thought he might no longer speak to her. But then his gaze shot into one particular corner.

“Chocking fear. Can’t think from the medicine but the cuts wrack me with every heartbeat. Hot… white… pain. Everything burns. I can’t. I can’t. I’m going to… I’m dying… I’m…”

The boy looked up at her. “Dead.”

Ros glanced down into the lower courtyard.

“You can… feel their pain?”

“It’s louder here, with so many of them,” the boy confirmed. Then he slowly looked down again. “But… here I can help.”

Ros looked up again, towards the boy. But he was gone. She gasped perplexed, looked around confused. He had simply vanished, into thin air. And for a moment, her mind seemed to refuse to remember what he looked like, or his voice, or the conversation they had had. But then she spotted him, down in the lower courtyard, near the infirmary.

“Wait!” she called.

She rushed, before her memory could betray her again. Through the arch and down the steps into the lower courtyard, where she caught up with the boy. A moment, he stood there, before he walked and she followed. He whispered, his voice hardly audible for anyone but her.

“Every breath slower. Like lying in a warm bath, sliding away. Smell of my daughters hair as I kiss her goodnight…”

He had stopped by the side of a woman in Inquisition armour, lying on a bedroll outside a tent. Ros could see her breaths grow slow and far between and then her head nodded to the side as her gaze turned empty. The boy looked up. “Gone.”

His voice sounded sad, quiet. He lingered for a moment, and she looked at the dead woman, wondered where her daughter was. She looked up when the boy turned away again. And headed towards a different wounded soldier, a woman in the garb of the Ferelden military. This one was still sitting up, propped up on her elbows, swallowing hard. “Cracked, brown pain. Dry. Scraping. Thirsty.”

The boy looked up, looked around and then returned to the woman with a tube filled with water. He helped her sit up, helped her drink, and she whispered her thanks, before her eyes seemed to look through the boy entirely. Ros watched it all, quiet, without interruption. Finally, the boy returned to her side.

“You… use your powers to help them…”

The boy nodded.

“I… used to think I was a ghost. I didn’t know. I made mistakes… but I made friends, too. Then… a Templar proved I wasn’t real. I lost my friends. I lost everything. I learned… how to be more like what I am. It made me different, but stronger. Like you. Different, but stronger. I can feel more. I can help… more.”

She came closer.

“I… don’t even know what to call you?”

“I am called Cole. I like that name. I would like you to call me that.”

Ros smiled and nodded.

“Very well, Cole.”

He nodded, absentminded, looked around the infirmary and then walked away again. And she followed quietly.

“It hurts… it hurts… someone make it stop hurting… Maker, please…”

He had stopped at the side of a soldier, lying on his back, breath rasping in his lungs, colour drained from his face. His stomach was wrapped in bloody bandages and a foul smell came from his flesh. Cole looked back over his shoulders.

“Stomach wound. Festering. The healers have done all they can. It will take him hours to die. Every minute will be agony. He wants mercy. He wants… help…” Cole said as he turned towards her and held out a small, sharp knife, the kind she had seen used in the stables of the Trevelyan estates, seen the a man use it to kill a sick horse, to put it out of its misery. She remembered the cries just before the horse would go still, remembered being haunted by the sound in her sleep for many nights after the first time she had heard it when she was still very little. She remembered waking up crying and her mother coming to her side to comfort her. Her mother would say the same thing. _It was in pain, Ros, it would have died in agony. They had to help it, quick and clean_. She nodded slowly.

“Then help him. But be quick and clean.”

The boy nodded. Ros watched as he went to his knees next to the man. He brushed through the sweaty dark hair, over the pale, damp forehead, then lifted his head up a little. The movement happened fast, Ros only just had time to look away before the smell of blood overpowered everything else. When she looked down again, the man was still, looked peaceful now and there was just barely enough blood left in his body to stain the frozen ground beneath him. The boy wiped the blood off his knife and put it away.

He turned towards her.

“I want to stay. I want to help.”    

And just like that, he was gone. Ros shook her head slowly. What an odd little boy he was, but there truly was something... comforting about him. Perhaps because there was no point in hiding from him. Perhaps because he knew everything about you, everything you felt, so there was no point in pretending to be someone she was not.


	16. Whatever floats your goat

She left behind the infirmary and made her way through a high arch. She looked up, watched the sun be eclipsed by the stone and then reappear on the other side, making her blink. Ivy was covering the stone. Even up here, in the freezing cold, life found a way somehow. As she kept wandering, she found herself surrounded by the familiar smell of... stables. Ros felt her face light up as she came closer. The many Avvar horses were kept here, behind a small wooden fence and Branson was tending to them here, cleaning their hooves and brushing their hide before the traditional paint would be applied to them when they next were taken out of their pen. He waved at her with a wide grin when he spotted her and she watched from the fence as he put the horses through their paces. She liked to listen to the sound of their hooves, the strong huffs the creatures made. She enjoyed the smell, so familiar. She could spend hours here.

Only when Branson came closer and leaned against the fence next to her did she look up.

“Didn’t think to see you here.”

“Not?” she asked.

“Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of lowland Princess? What draws _you_ into the stables?”

Ros laughed and shook her head. Lowland Princess? She was not sure about that. Not when she had spent more years of her life in the Circle and on the run than actually in the noble household of her family.

“My family is famous for our horses. We had large stables and I spent a lot of time there as a child. I would sometimes get up very early in the morning to sneak out of our estate and steal one of the horses for a ride. I’d take it halfway across our lands and then down to the beaches of the Waking Sea. I’d never come back before noon, and every time my mother would be furious with me. She said it was not the proper behaviour for a lady and I wouldn’t be able to do all this nonsense when I was married,” Ros said, imitating her mother’s stern voice.

She laughed, and Branson fell in with low chuckles. He shook his head.

“And then?”

Her smile faded.

“I was... eleven when my magic manifested and I was taken to the Circle. We didn’t have horses there... Or much opportunity to go outside, to be honest...”

“How long where you in the Circle?” he asked. By now he had fully turned towards her.

“Hm... very nearly 14 years.”

“And you never were allowed outside?!” he asked upset. Ros laughed.

“Well, not quite. I did enjoy a few privileges other mages... did not. Because my brother was a Templar, I was allowed to leave the Circle on few occasions, under his supervision. I was allowed to visit my family, and even travel to other cities some time. But most others were not so lucky. And many Circles were much stricter than the one in Ostwick. I know... I _knew_ many mages who never left their Circle. Some are like prisons, while ours was more like... a school with very strict house rules.”

Branson shook his head.

“Gods have mercy, your people have strange customs. If our shamans were treated like that, there’d be an uprising. Rosalie would be the first to protest if she were not allowed to run around naked in the snow every morning.”

Ros laughed breathlessly and shook her head.

“Well, there was an uprising from our mages as well. It all... escalated in the last few years. That’s why we were at the Temple in the first place, hoping to broker peace between the mages and the Chantry and Templars who were meant to protect us but instead... in many cases at least, were oppressing mages rather than helping them.”

Branson nodded.

“We heard. Only bits and pieces of hear-tell, but enough to get a rough idea. Aren’t you glad you got out of there?” he asked.

“To be honest... I was mortified when it all began. I didn’t want to leave the Circle. I was happy there, so were most of my fellow mages in Ostwick. But... it all fell apart. And suddenly we were fugitives and had no choice but to seek refuge with the other rebel mages.”

Branson had grown more sincere, the light heartedness of their conversation washed away. He moved closer, something very stern in his face and in that moment, he looked so much like his older brother it made Ros gasp surprised.

“I think you were meant to come here, Róisín. For my brother’s sake.”

“Cullen seemed to have done fine before I got here,” she replied, brushing a wayward strand of short hair behind her ears, away from flushed cheeks. But Branson shook his head.

“He... never told you about our mother, did he? About why he became thane at barely 21 summers? About why he avoided this place all these years, or why he doesn’t sleep?”

Ros looked up, met the stern gaze of the hazel eyed, young Lion’s Bane.

“No…”

She did not know any of this. She did not know what had happened to their mother, why Cullen had become thane so young, and she most certainly did not know he did not sleep. He kept that from her. She knew he had his secrets, she had started seeing that very clearly when Skyhold first came up. But right there it dawned on her that over all these months they had been travelling together, all this time they had grown so close... he had never talked about himself. It had always been about her. Her fears, her pain, her mark, her past. And, with a painful knot in her stomach, she realised she had never asked. She had never asked about him, had never even considered that he, too, carried a burden.

And she claimed to love him? She was ashamed of herself.

Branson had to notice it, for she felt his hand on her arm. When she looked up, she found him smiling.

“Don’t worry. He never speaks to anyone about it. You’d literally have to force it out of him. But... if there is one he’ll open up to, it’s you.”

Branson nodded upwards. Ros turned to where his gaze had fallen. There were stairs in the stone behind the stables, leading up to the ramparts and up there she saw a familiar silhouette. The broad shoulders and large dark lion mane of the thane. “He’s waiting for you, I wager?”

Ros nodded and turned back to Branson with an apologetic look.

“Sorry.”

But he simply grinned.

“You know, you make him happy. Haven’t seen him smile as much as since you’re here in... a long, long time. You’re good for him. And I got horses to get back to.”

“It was nice talking, Bran.”

He nodded.

“It was, Róisín. We should do that again some time,” he replied and then turned away, to get back to his horses.

Ros walked back past the stables and towards the stone steps. She climbed up the stones in the shadow of the wall, much colder here than it was anywhere else, a thin, glittering layer of ice covering the steps, forcing her to hold onto the broad stone rail to avoid slipping and falling and making a complete fool of herself.

When she reached the ramparts however, she stepped out into the sun and into the cold breeze that made her breathless for a moment, but also opened the view of the glacier and the many tents of the Inquisition. And a stream of people that came up the ancient road from the mountains. She could see Josephine Montilyet – her shiny, silken robes catching the light even from far – who was coordinating the new arrivals.

“So many people...” Ros whispered.

“They seem to be Andrastians who were on their way to Haven. When news of its destruction spread they changed course. The ravens of the Nightingale delivered them the location of this castle.”

Ros turned towards Cullen, who had come closer. He was leaning forward against the battlements, overlooking the encampment.

“I am sorry...”

He turned towards her, blinked confused. “They burden you here, take up your people’s resources... If it weren’t for me you’d never have them here.”

Cullen frowned and rubbed a hand in the back of his neck. She had seen him do that before. It was something he did when he was looking for words, when he struggled to express himself. It was what he did when he needed a moment to search for the right thing to say. So she waited until he looked up at her again.

“It’s true that I would not have invited the Inquisition to Skyhold if you were not with us. But I made the choice on my own. You did not ask me to do this, or persuaded me. It was my choice.”

“I know, I just-”

“Ros,” he interrupted her, his voice soft and quiet. He took her hands, his skin warm against her rather chilly fingers. And when she looked up he was smirking, in that mind boggling way where his scar made the right corner of his mouth pull up ever so slightly higher than the other and his golden eyes had a spark in them that made her knees turn weak. “How did you put it? _My_ castle, _my_ choice?” he asked, then brought her hand up to kiss her knuckles.

She chuckled, with a blush creeping into her cheeks.

“Should we... um... go for that walk?” she asked. She cursed herself a little, because she should not be so flustered anymore. But Maker, that smirk did things to her. She would think after all these months, she should have grown used to it. That after all this time, there were other things that would make her stumbled over her words. But no, his smirk still did the trick. And the way it made her feel, that would not stop anytime soon. The way it made her feel, they could well be old and grey in many years and she’d still get weak in the knees at the sight of that smirk, and she would not want it any other way.

“Of course,” he said. He stepped to her side and put an arm around her waist, holding her close to him as they started walking along the battlements of the castle. They walked in silence as they crossed a vacant room, then over the portcullis and through a second room, where a wooden ceiling had long since collapsed. Cullen guided her steps over the dusty rubble and out through the next door, back onto the ramparts. “Did you get to see much of the castle yet?”

“I was at the shaman’s hut. And the infirmary the Inquisition set up. And the stables,” she recounted. Cullen nodded.

“I saw you talk with Bran,” he noted. Ros nodded.

“I did. A little bit about this and that,” she said. She fought the urge to ask him straight out what had happened to his mother, to ask him to talk about himself more. Instead, she fiddled with the wooden tassels that closed her coat. “So… what have you been up to all morning?”

“Far less fun things. With so many members joining the hold after we left Hargrave Keep, I had to sort through quite some matters with the new people. And there have been a few issues that happened here in the hold during my absence that required attention…” he explained sternly. “Now that we are back in the castle, more tribes from across the lands will likely contact us to see the one blessed by Our Lady.”

When he said it, he smiled down at her and gingerly nudged her chin with a finger.

“We know it wasn’t the Gods that gave me this mark. It was Corypheus’ orb…” Ros said quietly, shaking her head.

“You said you remembered a woman offering you her hand to help you return to the world of the living. That is what people rely on now, that woman may have been the Lady. The realm that you call the Fade is the domain of Our Lady, it is not unlikely that she would show herself to you there,” he said. Ros stayed quiet, looked down at her hand. She remembered only vaguely what she had seen in the last moments before the Breach had collapsed. But she did remember very clearly the majestic figure she had seen when she had fought back against the Hand of Korth. The woman in the distance that had made her doubt what she thought to be the truth. That woman might have just as well been the Lady. The augur had explained to her that the shamans of the Avvar offered themselves as vessels to spirits when it was needed. Perhaps she had been a vessel for the Lady then, perhaps the Lady was a powerful spirit that had shown herself in the form of the augur back then. She did not know. There were many things she was yet uncertain of.

She shook her head.

“I’d rather… not talk about my mark any more. Branson told me you are not sleeping well?”

Cullen blinked irritated and glanced back towards the stables. Ros bit her tongue. She should not have mentioned that! Poor Branson would probably get in trouble.

“Did he now…?”

“He did. Sorry. He was just concerned.”

Cullen shook his head and smiled weakly.

“Well, he’s not… wrong. I have not been sleeping well for a long time. But… it’s getting better,” he said as he turned back to her. He put a hand on her cheek, warm and gentle. “You make it better.”

“Me?”

He nodded and turned fully towards her, made her stop and lean back against the battlements. His body kept her locked between the stone and himself, one arm leaning against the wall behind her, the hand of the other caressing her cheek. His thumb brushed over her lips.

“Having you near me…” he said, his voice a low rumble that she felt through their bodies, so close together and it made a sensation travel down her spine and pool between her thighs. She sighed when his lips came to hers, warm and intense, lingering there. She wanted to ask so many things, but kissing him effectively wiped her memory of everything that was not his lips, or the warmth of his arms around her. She leaned closer, deepened their kiss, could not hold back her hands that came splayed across his painted chest and-

_“mmmmmaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH-”_

A splatting sound followed the distressed noise that had flown overhead and Ros looked wide-eyed at the man she was still kissing. Their lips had stilled, both quite obviously confused.

“That wasn’t me, I swear!” Ros declared alarmed as she pulled back. Cullen put both hands on her shoulders and his face turned stern, his brows deeply furrowed. He looked past her, eyes narrow as he scanned the horizon for-

_“mmmmmmmaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH-”_

This time, Ros turned around as well and just as she did, she saw something flying over their heads, a shadow, not big but very noisy. It slapped against the outside walls of the mead hall and left a red-brown smear as it dropped to the ground.

“What the…?!”

“Oh, by Hakkon’s beard…” Cullen grumbled and started marching away. Ros gasped and followed.

“What’s happening?!”

“Someone is smearing goat’s blood on the walls of our hold. I need to find whoever is doing that.”

“What does it mean?! Mia has not covered flying goats in my lessons yet!” Ros called as she hurried to follow Cullen. They climbed from the battlements into the upper courtyard and towards the mead hall. There, on the ground, lay two sad, crushed goats covered in blue paint.

“It’s a form of retribution for a severe insult to another thane. Someone thinks I have insulted them somehow,” Cullen barked, clearly very angry. He was quickly joined by Michael and Mia and the three did not even talk about what was happening, they marched down through the lower courtyard and out of the castle with their weapons drawn. Ros stayed behind at the gate, her confusion not diminished by his words.

“Lady Trevelyan?”

She glanced over at the familiar appearance of Josephine Montilyet approaching with her clipboard and quill.

“Josephine. How may I help you?”

“Um… I am not quite sure how to put this, but… someone has been launching… goats. At the walls.”

Ros sighed.

“Yes apparently that is a thing. Cullen is already investigating, I suggest we do not get involved.”

Josephine hesitated a moment and then nodded. Ros waited by the gates, watches as a number of hunters headed out to find their thane, second in command, and Master of the Hunt. After a while – she did not quite know how long it was that she stood there and waited and watched the Inquisition refugees – she spotted the familiar silhouette of Cullen return from the mountains. And behind him, Mia and Michael, the hunters led a group of prisoners. Avvar, judging from their clothing, and when they came closer Ros felt a knot in her stomach. The headpieces the men wore had ram horns on them, and their body paint was the familiar white and blue of the tribe they had left behind in the Fallow Mire. Cullen himself dragged a man past the gates, the man was older, with lean muscles and a thick, grey beard, and he was laughing, clearly amused by something despite being quite literally dragged in by his horns.

Cullen was in no mood for games, she could tell. He was _furious_. He walked like an angry beast, and his face was a mask with a grim frown and gritted teeth. She followed him as he dragged the prisoner up into the mead hall, hoping to avoid unnecessary bloodshed as more and more Avvar gathered and the noise level in the courtyard grew with every step they took.

They reached the mead hall and Cullen dropped the man in front of the dais.

“Movran the Under!” he declared, his voice thundering through the stone hall. He climbed the steps of the dais and – although there was the briefest hesitation in his step - dropped into his throne. His arms came down to the stone rests, his legs were wide apart as he launched back into the furs covering the throne. Maker’s breath, he looked majestic that way! Demanded authority simply by sitting, and everyone noticed. Silence rolled over the hall like a wave and everyone gathered there now stared at the thane in the throne. His golden eyes were like blades, pointing at the pulse of the man on his knees before him. “You attack my hold and insult my people. How do you justify yourself?!” he asked.

The other Avvar, Movran the Under, laughed.

“A formality. You killed my idiot son, and customs demand it that I smear your walls with goat’s blood to avenge his death. The deed is done. I have no further quarrel with you, thane Lion’s Bane. Or with your Marked One. Frankly, you did me a favour. All my other sons know how to use the brains in their heads.”

“Do you know why your son met my blade?” Cullen asked grimly.

“I do not know and I do not care,” Movran the Under said with a shrug.

“The Hand of Korth insulted the Lady and the Father by attempting to force himself on the Marked One. Your act of vengeance, formality or not, is an act of defending vile deeds. I should have you executed!”

“I do not mean insult to the Lady or the Father. If my head is what they deem a worthy price to repay the debt, then so be it,” the other thane said. There was a painful silence following his words. Cullen sat in his throne, his brows still in a frown and his hand brushing over his stubbled chin. When he looked up, his golden eyes seemed to search the room and they got caught on her.

“Róisín,” he said. She gasped and with squared shoulders, she walked past Movran the Under. The man watched her attentively as she came to Cullen’s side. “You are the wounded party in this. You should decide his fate.”

Ros gulped. She had asked for a voice among his tribe, for the power to influence his decisions as thane. She had _not_ meant to make them for him.

“I… shouldn’t…”

“I know there is more mercy in you than in me…” Cullen said. She saw his hands clenched to tight fists on the armrests. He would have that man executed. He would not hesitate, she knew that. Just like he had not hesitated when the Hand of Korth had attacked her. She shook her head slowly.

“Let me talk to him first…” she whispered. He nodded. Ros drew in a deep breath, then turned towards the man on trial. “Movran the Under. If you are allowed to leave here, will you cause Skyhold further damage?” she asked.

“No, Marked One. If I am allowed to leave, I will take the men I brought here with me and you will never see us again. We were friends of Skyhold, Ethel the Unvanquished well respected among my hold. We have no quarrel with you and we had little love for my idiot son.”

“I see… is it true that your tribe has been at odds with the Tevinter?”

“For many generations, Marked One,” the Under said, visibly confused by her knowledge. Ros saw Mia smirk at her, pride making her chest swell a little. She had taught the lowlander well. Ros nodded.

“Then I have decided your punishment,” she declared, her voice now more sure than she had ever heard herself. There was something about standing next to this throne with everyone looking up at her. “You are to be banished from these lands. You and your tribe are to take however many weapons you can carry and are banished to the most southern corner of Tevinter.”

The man blinked perplexed. And then his thundering laugh filled the mead hall. He then bowed deeply, and there was no mockery, he meant it.

“Marked One, you are as wise and merciful as you are beautiful. Your gift will not be squandered.”

Still bowing, the Under moved away from the throne, backwards to the end of the mead hall and then left. Ros turned towards Cullen. He seemed to contemplate, then looked up at her.

“You sentenced his tribe to life as Highwaymen on the Imperial Highway. They will attack every Tevinter they see from miles away…” he said.

“If they can take out a few Venatori here and there, it can only serve us,” she replied with a shrug. Cullen’s lips curled up into a smirk.

“You _are_ as wise as you are beautiful,” he confirmed. Ros chuckled a little then leaned against the armrest and down to kiss his lips.

It was not exactly how she had hoped her day would go, but it was certainly something.


	17. Of Hard Work and Dirty Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone say 'sexy sparring session'? 
> 
> Be warned: There is some explicit, nsfw content in this chapter. If that's not your cup of tea, skip the last bit starting at 'He had not been able to stay there.'

Skyhold was beginning to feel like home. Ros spent most of the days out of her chambers at the top of the tower. She helped Branson with the horses, giving her a bit of a familiar feeling back, something she had always liked to so, reminding her of her family. She learned from the augur, gained insight into the Avvar schools of magic that were so different from what she had been taught in the Circle. And she spent time with some members of the Inquisition.

Cassandra was often within the walls of the castle, sparring in the upper courtyard.

The Iron Bull, head of a group of mercenaries, had overseen the transformation of a small structure in the castle into a tavern and soon, music began to fill the upper courtyard, flowing from the open windows of that tavern.

Varric spent much time in the mead hall, sat at a table there and was writing. What he wrote, he was very secretive about. There had certainly been some letters.

Josephine was always here and there, she was coordinating the different members of the Inquisition to integrate them in the castle – the blacksmiths had joined the Avvar at the forge, the Inquisition’s horsemaster, Dennet, had joined Branson and they had made room for some of the finest mounts the organisation had. Merchants had arrived and set up their posts in the lower courtyard as well, and Josephine had seen to it that an unused tower of the castle had been repurposed into a library, stocked with books the researchers of the Inquisition – mages and tranquil – had been able to save from Haven. It was not much, but it was better than nothing. All the while, Josephine kept moaning that she could do with an office where she could store all her paperwork and Ros had raised the issue to Cullen, making him consider finding an empty room for the Inquisition’s ambassador.

Dorian Pavus spent much of his time in the library and every now and then he invited Vivienne de Fer and Ros for a cup of tea.

Solas, the elf, was in that tower too, at the lowest floor, where he had found large walls of a rotunda he had begun to prepare for painting. Ros sometimes watched with curiosity, his technique was foreign and seemed to take much preparation. She was curious to see what the finished work would look like.

The Nightingale had occupied the attic of the tower for a rookery, where she kept her ravens and spent most of her time. Despite rarely seeing her out of there, Ros had no doubt the spymaster knew everything that happened in Skyhold, at all times.

One person Ros spent much time with was Madame Vivienne de Fer. Typically, it was one of the first stops she made in the morning. The chambers Vivienne had claimed for herself were located above the mead hall, her balcony overlooking the courtyards and she had ordered finest orlesian furniture to suit her extravagant needs.

When Ros arrived that morning, Vivienne sat draped on a chaise with fine upholstering. Before her on a small table, made from delicately carved wood painted in gold, rested fine smelling tea and a plate with small, cream-filled orlesian pastries, the like Ros had not seen in months. Vivienne was wrapped in a fine dressing gown, her ebony skin in contrast to the blue and silver royal sea silk.

“Good morning,” Ros greeted. The mage looked up. She eyed her up and down and then sighed.

“Darling, don’t you _ever_ tire of these rough animal hide clothes?” she asked, as she gestured to a small armchair near her. Ros sat down, a little flustered.

“I… do admit I sometimes miss finer dresses…”

“Say no more! I will have Bonnie get you something made. I am sure your… barbarian lover cares little what you wear. But you must not forget that you are a lady of high birth, and rags like these are beneath you.”

“It’s not _so_ bad, really.”

“Darling, I have seen you look at Josephine’s silk dresses. I know the look of a woman starved for something softer on her skin than animal hide.”

Ros felt her face turn bright red. Vivienne was not wrong. She would give _anything_ to wear a proper dress for a change. Not that she did not appreciate the very warm and very comfortable clothes the Avvar had given her, but sometimes – Vivienne put it perfectly – she just longed to feel like the Lady of Ostwick she had once been. “Now! Did you get what I told you? Show me!”

Vivienne sat up and gestured for her to come closer. Ros nodded and took out the wrapped bundle she had gotten from the blacksmith this very morning. They unwrapped it, and Vivienne took up the piece. It was a sword handle, well-crafted indeed, made from a strong, conductive material and infused with lyrium so it would channel magic. It was the most important piece of equipment for a Knight Enchanter.

It had been why Ros had first spoken to the woman. She had watched Vivienne in battle, the way she fiercely attacked her enemies, fighting on the front lines, not hesitating even a little. She had been in awe at the raw power the woman had presented and she had realised she wanted to learn that. Perhaps this magic might help her not feel so helpless anymore. Perhaps holding a spectral blade in hands and a magic shield would give her a feeling of security her old school of magic somehow could not.

So, she had spoken to Vivienne. A Circle mage herself, the woman had understood the fear Ros was dealing with, better than anyone else. As much as she appreciated Cullen’s understanding nature and his efforts to make her feel safe, she knew her fear was not rational and unless she found the weapons she needed to fight it, nothing would help. Vivienne understood that. Vivienne understood what Circle mages went through when their home was taken from them and they had to live on the run and in fear. Sure, the woman had condescending traits to her and Ros often felt like she treated her as a child. But she still understood, and she promised Ros to help her overcome her fear, to help her find the strength she needed. She had offered to teach her the school of the Knight Enchanter, teach her to fight as a warrior would, but with power much greater than brute strength ever could.    

Vivienne inspected the handle thoroughly. The design was Avvar, not of the elaborately shaped imagery of the orlesian handle the Court Advisor wielded herself. But it lay well in the hand, heavy enough to balance a proper swing but not so heavy it would put a physically weak mage out of balance. The Enchanter nodded.

“Good. I suppose it will do. You know the basics, now what you will need to learn is how to fight with a sword. Master this, and you will never again feel the need to rely on your blood for strength. The path of the Knight Enchanter is one of strength. You will do marvellously.”

“Will you teach me how to fight with a sword?”

“Oh, no, darling, I will certainly not roll around in a sparring ring with you. I was thinking Cassandra would make an excellent teacher on that front. I talked to her, and she has agreed to meet you near the tavern today to begin with basic training.”

“Thank you! I will go meet her right away!” Ros declared excited and got up from her chair. She wrapped her sword handle again and was about to rush away.

“Do take a creampuff, dear!”

Ros stopped in her tracks, returned and, with the bow of her head, took one of the light pastries, glazed with pink sugar and filled with strawberry cream. On her way out to the upper courtyard, she made that little pastry last, the delicious, sweet taste she got very little off here, as it was not part of Avvar ‘cuisine’ (Vivienne: _“If you can call that ‘cuisine’ at all…”_ ). By the time she reached Cassandra at the sparring ring, the delicious pastry was gone and only the aftertaste left on her lips.

“Good morning!” Ros called. The Seeker looked up and nodded.

“Good morning. Vivienne tells me you seek to learn the way of the Knight Enchanter?” she asked. Ros nodded and climbed into the ring.

“I want to develop my skills as a mage. In the last year, two years almost, I had no possibility to learn. This is an opportunity I cherish. I want to make the best of it. If I am to fight this Corypheus, I will do it like this.”

“That is a very good attitude. It will be a lot of work, you know this. To master this school of magic, you will need to learn to fight with a sword. Hacking and slashing will not do.”

“I know.”

“Your training will not be easy, but I will help you best as I can. Now,” Cassandra walked closer to her and handed her a wooden sword. The Seeker herself used one just like it and then stood a few steps apart. She began instructing, and Ros followed her guidance. The most helpful comment the Seeker made about two hours into their first lesson was that sword fighting was a lot like dancing. Just as wielding her staff to cast spells, a swordsman had to follow rules, had to dance on the battlefield. Ros may not have been the strongest, but she did have grace to her, everyone said so. Truly, how hard could it be?

* * *

 

Quite hard, apparently, judging by the many times Cassandra sent her flying into the mud during their first day of training. They had both discarded most of their armour – Ros’ coat was hanging over the fence, she was wearing only the hide skirt and a simple linen shirt now, much too large for her but good enough for training, and it was sweaty and muddy by now, made her feel utterly disgusting. Cassandra was out of her armour, now in a leather tunic and leggings.

The Iron Bull passed the ring twice during the day, every time he laughed amused. The third time he stopped and watched a little longer, complimented Cassandra’s skills, then moved on.

Branson came by once, wondering why she had not come to the stables all day. And a few minutes after he had left, Cullen came down the steps to the mead hall with Bran towing behind. Obviously the younger lion had run right to the thane and told him that his guest was rolling around in the mud outside. Watching him walk down the steps - all majestic with golden hair in the sunlight and taut muscle under paint and heavy fur - was enough to distract Ros so entirely that Cassandra managed to knock her over, the wind out of her lungs as she flew backwards into the mud.

“You are distracted!”

“Sorry!” Ros grumbled, pushed herself back to her feet. She was covered in mud and surely looked terrible, so she could not bring herself to turn towards the thane who was coming closer to the ring now.

“Again, from the top!” Cassandra ordered. They commenced circling each other again, Ros tried to pay intense attention to her footwork as she turned to face Cullen. He was leaning forward, elbows on the fence, watching them train. Ros and Cassandra exchanged swings. She knew the moves, still found herself stumbling now and again, still saw the Seeker’s attack too late, got slapped across the upper arm with the flat of the wooden blade. “Sloppy!”

“Andraste’s flaming knickers, I am trying!” Ros whined, rubbing the red mark on her arm.

“You try too hard.”

She looked up to see Cullen climb over the fence. She gasped alarmed. No! This was not the plan, no, no, no! It was enough that he was watching her embarrass herself, she did not want him to see up close how utterly useless she was at this. She wanted to turn to him, wanted to protest. But before she could, he had caught both her wrists. She looked up, then away quickly, blushing. "May I show you?" he asked, his voice so soft and careful. SHe nodded wordlessly and perhaps a little too enthusiastic. The thought of having him so close was exhilarating. His chest pressed against her back, his body almost completely engulfing her. “You’re too tense, that’s why you can’t react fast enough. Bring your shoulders down.”

She huffed and shimmied her shoulders, tried to relax them. It made him chuckle deep in his chest, a sound she felt rumbling right through her body. His hands left her wrists, came up to her shoulders. His fingers began kneading into her muscles, pressing them down, forcing them out of their tension. It made her stretch her neck, arch her back. She shook her shoulder belt and then let it give in to his pressing fingers, lowering the shoulders until he was satisfied. “Yes… good…” he mumbled, his voice and hot breath close by her ear. Ros felt a blush creep into her cheek and she saw Cassandra smirk a little, wanted to throw her wooden blade in the Seeker’s smug face. Cullen slowly made her half turn her shoulders so her left arm was ever so slightly in front of her and the right, where she held her sword, was to the back. That way, his lips brushed her skin when he spoke. “You get the strength for your swing from the back, you take it out of your legs, not out of your arms. Understand?”

“M-hm…” she mumbled, unable to articulate herself any better. His body was just so firm against hers, it made her a little dizzy to think about. Oncer, he made her lift up her sword in a swing and with every movement, she felt his muscles move against her, they moved like one, the warmth of his body against her, the dry paint rasp against the bare skin of her arms. She had to be beet red by now and was unable to turn and face him, no matter how much she wanted. Maker, she wanted to kiss him with that last bit of sweet taste of the pastry on her lips.

His hands then came down to her hips now, his thumbs kneading into her lower back and _Maker_ , she had almost let out a moan that would have been entirely inappropriate for an audience as large as the one they had right now. “Stand lower… lower…”

“I am low!” Ros protested, her voice breaking in her throat.

“Lower,” he repeated, more insistent, when he was still unhappy with her stance. An arm moved around her, his hand splayed across her stomach, pressing her closer against him. She felt his knee move between her legs, forcing them further apart, bending her knees until she was practically sitting on his crotch. Her mouth was dry as paper by now. She had thought about this often – or, that was to say, she had _fantasised_. With the difference that they were usually alone in those fantasies where he taught her to handle a sword, and they usually ended up naked and tangled up in the furs in her room, where he would teach her a very different set of moves, and she would handle a very different sword. She looked up, met Cassandra’s face, and she half expected the Seeker to tease her for the bright blush in her face. However, the smug smile had disappeared, instead the Seeker looked concentrated and nodded in approval now. She felt Cullen nod as well.

“Looks good,” the Seeker said.

“Well I won’t be able to stand like that, I’ll fall over,” Ros grumbled.

“She needs a counterweight. A shield,” Cullen insisted. Cassandra shook her head.

“If she is to be a Knight Enchanter, she will wield a staff and a magic sword.”

“A staff then.”

She felt him half turn and it made her look up. Only now did she notice that more and more people had gathered. Inquisition soldiers, scout Harding was standing on the lower bar of the fence so she had a better view. The Iron Bull and his mercenaries were with her, and people were watching out of the windows of the tavern. There were Avvar, too, Mia, and Rosalie sat on the Fence behind Cullen, where he had just turned. At his order, the younger of the two looked up, nodded and flung herself back out of the ring. She rushed to the shaman’s hut and returned not a minute later with a simple, wooden staff. She tossed it to her brother and he handed it to Ros. “There. Now you have your staff to help you keep your balance, and block her, and your sword to attack.”

He looked up and nodded towards Cassandra. The Seeker had picked up a simple training shield for herself and nodded back, then she began the slow circling again. Cullen stepped away from Ros, leaving her frustratingly exposed and wanting of the warmth he radiated. But the instructions had helped, and having a staff to balance herself did wonders, too. She joined the slow circle with Cassandra, focused on the Seeker and on predicting her actions. She was still not very good at this, but her staff allowed her to block the first attack, then evade the second and actually haul forward her practice sword once. It slammed into the practice shield of her opponent, the impact made her arm wobble a little. Cassandra leapt forward, thrust down with the tip of her blade aiming for Ros’ knee. She took an evasive step, then came back into her basic position.

“Well done,” Cassandra complimented. The Seeker was smirking again and they began exchanging sword thrusts and hits, slamming into wooden shield and staff, blades crossing, pushing each other backwards. Ros had sweat beading on her face and soaking her shirt, but for the first round since this morning, she was not falling in the mud anymore.

Once they had finished every single step Cassandra had taught her that day, the Seeker lowered her sword and shield and nodded. “You did great,” she said, and was then accompanied by cheers from the side-lines, Avvar and Inquisition alike. Ros blushed, embarrassed, and turned towards the gathered crowd.

“Don’t you people have work to do?!” she asked. There was laughter, but the group dissolved, people returning to their work. She was looking for Cullen, tried to spot him, but he seemed to have left earlier, without her noticing it. Finally, she turned back to Cassandra. The Seeker was putting away the practice swords.

“This was a good day, you will make good progress if you remember your stance. And the people seem pleased to see you work so hard.”

“They just appreciate the distraction, it’s good to have a bit of fun every now and then. It’s fun to watch me stumble in the dirt,” she teased. Cassandra grinned.

“It certainly is. But there’s more to this. You outsmarted Corypheus once, and they need to know that you will be able to defeat him. They look to you for guidance, all of them. Andrastian’s and Avvar alike.”

“I am not sure how good a source of guidance I am. But I will try my best.”

“That is all anyone can ask of you,” Cassandra confirmed with a nod. She handed Ros a dry towel and a tube of water to drink. The liquid was cool from lying in the snow all morning, refreshing, not only to drink but also to pour a bit of it over her face and wash away the salty sweat. “Get some rest. We will continue tomorrow at dawn.”

“I’ll be there,” Ros confirmed with a nod, before the two parted ways.

* * *

 

He had not been able to stay there. There was only so much a man could take, and his composure ended at ‘beautiful girl, sweaty and covered in mud while sparring and grunting at the physical exhaustion’. The contrast was just too extreme. To see Ros like this, his Ros, who he always felt as a delicate flower he wished to protect. Yet sometimes she turned into this… magnificent goddess who faced hordes of cultists alone and survived a stand-off with an ancient Tevinter magister. His Ros, who braved the wrath of heaven itself, faced blizzards and avalanches and treacherous mountains during the night, just to be with him again. His Ros, who now decided that luck alone would not be enough to face the threat that was ahead of them so she worked to refine her magic, hone her skills like any warrior would sharpen his weapon, and expand her knowledge to conquer every obstacle this Elder One might throw in her way.

He was in awe. With everything she was. Her beauty, her grace, her determination, her stubbornness, the way she always got up, every time she was thrown in the dirt.

He left behind the upper courtyard and the cheering crowd that had gathered there to watch the Seeker test the mettle of the Marked One. He crossed the mead hall and the people there, paid them no mind. He was restless, and actually physically in pain for holding back his desire for her. He had to do something, anything, or he might lose his mind.

He marched past his thrown and into the stairwell of the tower, threw shut the door behind him. His mouth was dry, cold sweat beating on his forehead. Gods, he was straining hard under his loincloth. The way she had leaned against him, the way her bottom had ground against him as he helped her take the proper stance he had been taught when he had been but a little boy. The way she had smelled, sweaty and dirty, but that note that was clearly hers still under it, impossible to cover up, that scent of lavender, vanilla and lemon and these strange spices they used in her homelands she had requested from the Inquisition’s ambassador. It had shot right into his groin. Why had he thought it was a good idea to teach her, to get her so close?

He forced his feet up the stairs to his small room, closed that door a well. And his gaze wandered to the door that led up to her room. His old bedchamber he had left to her. He hesitated a moment, but then… she would train a while longer, he knew that, Cassandra was an unforgiving mentor. He had time. He would not need long, Gods knew it would only take him a moment with how ready he was. He climbed up the stairs into the quiet room high above the castle. Through the windows wide open he could hear the commotion in the courtyard, the two women clearly still sparring and the crowd still cheering them on.

She had changed things since she had moved in here. There was a large bathtub set up, and a shelf with books she had borrowed from the library, and a mirror and vanity for her to know what she looked like.

The bed was neatly made, cushions arranged meticulously. He came closer, ran his hands over the furs and cushions and picked one up, inhaled the scent clinging to them. Her scent. He could almost imagine her warmth still on them. His eyes closed, he could imagine her lie in these cushions, sleepy and content, sprawled out and relaxed and completely naked. He had to lean his shoulder against the stone carved bedpost for support.

The imagination was vivid. The perfect, soft curves of her body as she lay on her back, arms over her head, legs closed, with the triangle of dark curls giving a tease of what lay between them, the soft swell of her breasts, the pert, dark pink nipples, the many freckles covering her soft, delicious skin. He swallowed hard, imagined coming to her, imagined brushing his fingers up her legs. She would chuckle when he brushed over the bend of her knees, then moan as he wandered up her thighs. Her eyes would flutter just a little, hooded and dark with arousal. And as his hands would wander over her skin, she would start moving towards him, and she would worry at her lower lip, a flush rising in her cheeks.

He groaned at the thought. His free hand pushed aside the loincloth and stroked up and down his hardened flesh lightly, a prickling sensation that made his muscles tighten, his teeth clench. What would her touch feel like? What would it feel like, to have her hands around him? He imagined her sitting up, moving closer. Her breasts would brush his thighs, the peaks hard but so tender against his skin. She would look up at him as her hands caressed his hips. He swallowed hard, the image of her gazing up at him from the bed almost too much to bear.

He imagined her fingers, closing around his shaft. As he did, his own hand closed in, squeezing his hardness, stroking up and down the length. Would her touch be hesitant, cautious? Would she look up at him, asking with those bright eyes of hers if he was enjoying it? Or would she be bold, would she squeeze and pump, driving him towards the edge with that same fierce determination that he admired so? He looked down at himself, his cock straining in his hand, a first, creamy pearl of his seed glistening at his tip. He halted his movement, circled the head with his thumb, wiped up the droplet. Would she use her tongue?

Gods, it was too much. To imagine her glancing up at him from there, watching the ecstasy built in his face as he drew closer to his climax. To imagine her tending to him with her delicate hands. To imagine her tongue, warm and wet, stroke up his length and swirl around his tip. He groaned, squeezed harder, closed his eyes as he pumped himself. He imagined her lips closing over him, imagined her mouth around him, wet and hot, sucking and squeezing, taking all of him. He-

He came with a groan. He burst with his climax, spilling over his hand, shooting from him in three spouts, four, and finally a long sigh escaped him. He turned, leaned his back against the bed post. By the Gods, he could never let her know about this! That he had done this in her room, without her knowledge, imagining her doing these things. But it had felt good, so incredibly good.

His hands were sticky, covered in his seed, and he wiped them on the inside of his loincloth. His cock hung spent between his legs, the flesh still hot from the attention. One last time, he inhaled the scent of her from the fur he had picked up, then he left, as fast as he could, to not get caught here of all the places, and in the state he was in.

At least for a little while he would be able to be near her now, without having to control his every move, perhaps for a little while he could stop thinking about nibbling her neck as he drove himself into her, her back arched against him, screaming her name as he filled her and-

No. No he would not be able to stop thinking about that. Not any time soon.


	18. The Inquisitor and The Champion

Cullen sat in the mead hall early this morning and the sun was only just rising when he heard Ros come downstairs. He looked over his shoulder, caught her gaze as she stepped through the door and met his eye. She smiled.

“Good morning,” she greeted, came over to his side. He could not help but smile back. She was a beautiful sight in the morning. And in the afternoon. And the evening. And at night. She was just… a beautiful sight. There were still smudges of dirt on her arms and her face, mud that had not washed off properly after her sparring session yesterday. It gave her a somewhat mischievous appearance, made her seem years younger. He leaned back in his throne as she came closer and he watched her carefully as she put her arms on both his armrests and leaned closer to press her lips to his. The attentive frown turned into a soft smile at the touch of her lips. “Sleep well?” she asked.

“Well enough,” he replied.

 _Would have slept better with you in my arms_ , his mind added, but his tongue did not say it. She lingered, lips hovering just inches away from his. She did look young. He tilted his head a little. “This… may be bad timing for such a question but… how old are you?”

She blinked confused, then smirked, then laughed. She leaned away.

“Why, how old do I look?”

“Very young right now.”

“Oh? That is good to hear! I feel younger, too. I think it’s the bed, it’s very comfortable, I sleep much better in it,” she contemplated. He had to focus on his breathing, not on the image of her sleeping in that bed, naked, as he had imagined her just yesterday. Sprawled out and beautiful. “But to put your mind at ease, I am turning 25 in summer.”

His hand came up to brush over her cheek, caress back strands of her dark hair. The brown waves were getting longer and he wondered how she might look with long, silky hair, rather than the playful short cut she had when they had first met.

“You have seen much for one so young…”

“Good things and bad, yes. But now I am seeing you. So I can’t have gone that wrong in my choices, can I?” she asked with a smile. She pressed her lips to the tip of his nose and then stood up again. He grinned.

“You are in an exceptionally good mood today, my beautiful chosen one,” he noted.

“Just trying to ignore the aches and pains that follow training lessons with Cassandra!” she declared. She looked over the mead hall absentmindedly, and sat halfway on his armrest. Then she turned back to him. “Say, were you in my room yesterday?”

He froze. His mind was racing. Yesterday? Of course he had been in her room yesterday. Gods have mercy, he could never tell her the truth about yesterday! What would she think if she knew? Would she be embarrassed? Disgusted? Amused? Aroused? He shook his head, cleared his throat.

“N-no. I wasn’t.”

“Huh... strange...”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s nothing really. One of my furs was out of place. I am pretty meticulous with these things... a bit obsessed really... someone must have moved it, I would remember having put it there...”

“I can place a guard at your door. Jim, maybe...” Cullen suggested. Inside, he was deeply ashamed for lying about this, but felt like it would be even more awkward if he told the truth. She laughed.

“Oh no, I am sure it’s nothing. Probably just Cole...”

“Probably...” he said. The spirit boy could take the blame for this, right? He’d make it up to him somehow.

Ros pushed herself off the arm rest again and stretched. “Anyways, I’ll be off to training. Walk later?”

He smiled at her and nodded.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

And so she made her way down the steps of the dais. He watched as she opened the double doors out of the mead hall, letting in the bright sunlight. And Cullen noticed the long shadows of three figures waiting just outside. It made him frown as he watched them stop Ros in her tracks. They talked, and he needed to know about what.

He rose from his throne and crossed the hall in large steps, catching up with her swiftly only to hear the end of Cassandra’s sentence.

“… fore we have agreed that you are the most suitable.”

Ros shook her head. Cullen watched her face, the blank shock on her features as the words slowly seemed to sink in.

“What is going on?” he asked grimly, instantly protective with a hand on her arm to assure her of his presence.

“The Inquisition needs a leader. The Inquisition needs someone who can unite them, someone they can willingly follow. The Inquisition needs _her_.”

“I’m a mage. An apostate no less. No one will take me serious!” Ros protested.

“Everyone already takes you serious. You bested Corypheus in Haven. You led all of us to safety. You gave us a place to regroup, to rebuild, to grow. There are people arriving every day, the road to Skyhold has become a pilgrimage, people come to see you, people come to witness what you have accomplished here. The Inquisition has never been taken more serious than now and we need to make use of that. Announcing your leadership formally will put everyone at ease,” Josephine explained.

“The fact that you are a mage must not be a hindrance. In fact, it may help your cause. If the people see a mage champion against Corypheus in this war, it might give the Templar’s pause and it might make the people understand that mages are just as capable of bringing great good to this world as they are of bringing great evil,” the Nightingale added.

“I… I don’t think I can be what you need…”

“She doesn’t want this. Find someone else,” Cullen growled.

“It’s not about what she wants. It’s about what’s right and what’s needed. The Inquisition needs her. The _world_ needs her,” Cassandra insisted.

“Wrong. It’s absolutely about what she wants. Your Inquisition is here, in my hold, because she _wants_ it. If she does not want you here anymore, you will have to find yourself a new castle, and a new Herald,” he insisted, hand on his sword.

“Are you threatening me?” Cassandra asked grimly.

“I am telling you that I will not let you overstay your welcome,” he growled back.

“Please, everyone, stay calm, we do not look to fight over this. We merely wanted Róisín to know that the Inquisition… needs a leader. We needed a leader a long time ago, neither of us three could decide, votes turned up no difference. But in the past days we have surveyed among our people and… they all agree that she would be perfect for the role. That is all we came to tell her. That if she wishes, the Inquisition would gladly serve her,” Josephine calmly said, ushering Cassandra to take the hand off her sword. And in turn, Ros caught his arm.

“Cullen… they’re right,” she whispered. He turned towards her, away from the other three women. Sternly he watched her, and there was no doubt in her features. She looked past him, down the steps into the courtyards and as he followed he gaze he saw people gathered there, looking up at them with hope in their eyes. All of them looked to her. He turned back to her, swallowed hard. This was what he had been afraid of. Now, she would lead them, and in time she would leave with them. His heart clenched in his chest.

“Ros…”

“The Inquisition needs a leader. And if I can make a difference… I need to accept this responsibility. I’d be a coward if I didn’t.”

“You owe them _nothing_ , Ros,” he insisted. She looked up, with that same, gentle smile she had when she told him she would go up against the Elder One. The same smile she had when they had been certain they would never see each other again. The smile she had when she did something, knowing there would be nothing in return for her.

“I know. I know this responsibility will be too much for me. That’s why I need you, I need to know you’ll be by my side.”

He drew in a deep breath, like her words had cut open a rope that had been wrapped tight around his lungs. _She needed him. She wanted him by her side_. She would not leave.

“If this is what you want… then I will support you.”

“An alliance between the Inquisition and the Avvar?” Josephine contemplated, scratching something down on her clipboard. “That will yield some… fascinating new developments.”

Ros nodded towards the three women.

“I will be your… leader.”

“Do not worry. You will not be alone. We will be there to give our council, to help you decide the actions of this Inquisition. Together… we may be able to vanquish this threat,” Josephine said. Cassandra nodded in confirmation and then walked down the steps. On the stone platform halfway towards the upper courtyard, she stopped, visible for everyone to see as they gathered.

“Inquisition! We have a banner, a cause, and a common enemy to unite us. Today, we give you our leader. We give you… the Inquisitor!”

She turned back towards them, expectations in her gaze. Cullen could feel Ros tremble next to him, the softest shake of nerves getting the better of her. And even if he might just help a little, he took her hand, squeezed it, assured her of his presence. He saw her nod, and then she walked down the steps by his side. He could tell she leaned on him, probably because she was afraid to ruin the solemn moment by stumbling and falling down those steps and he could not help but smile. Because he had been there. Ten years ago, when he had left Skyhold and taken his people with him. He had been terrified as he walked down these very steps, terrified to make a fool of himself by stumbling and falling and becoming the laughing stock of the entire tribe and every tribe between here and the Basin. And, even more so – just like her right now – terrified of what the future may hold. But he had made it, and so would she.

Only when they reached the platform did he let go of her hand. Cassandra took her left instead, the marked hand, the green still shimmering under her skin. And she raised that hand high over their heads. Cheers burst from the crowd of Inquisition soldiers and supporters. Cullen stepped back, just enough so she knew he was still there but he was not stealing her thunder. Because this was for her.

Some people, he knew, were born with greatness. But those that truly lasted, those that would truly be remembered, were the ones who became great through their actions. And seeing Róisín today… he knew she would be that kind of great.

* * *

The cheering passed, and the four women stood in the narrow chamber outside the mead hall, in a circle. Cullen stood a slight apart from them, left them to it, let Cassandra, Josephine and Leliana explain. Ros had her arms clutched around herself, still nervous. Her breaths were still shallow and her hands damp and cold from the excitement.

How had this happened?! How had she gotten herself into all of this?! One moment, she was a runaway apostate struggling to survive, now suddenly she was the (albeit symbolic) leader of the Inquisition, the quite possibly most influential organisation of southern Thedas! And she somehow was revered as holy by not one, but two different faiths.

Maker, what had she gotten herself into! If Rheon could see her like this…

“We will need a room where we can convene, the four of us, to strategise. Would that be possible?” Leliana inquired. Ros looked from her towards Cullen, standing just a little behind her. He nodded firmly.

“I can clear something for you,” he confirmed.

“Thank you. We… may not seem it, but we do appreciate the hospitality you have shown us,” Josephine spoke softly. Ros saw Cullen nod, but ultimately his eyes were always on her. She knew he did this for her. She knew if she said just one word of discomfort, of not wanting any of this anymore, he would have the Inquisition driven out of his hold within a day. That he was willing to offer them so much, to give up so much of his tribe’s property, just because she asked him to, it truly boggled her mind. How did she deserve this devotion? This… love? She had done nothing for him, given him nothing in return, yet he was always there for her, always willing to give and give some more.

“We need to make our move swiftly now. Corypheus will not sit idly by while we settle here. We know his plans, now we need to find a way to stop him,” Cassandra said grimly.

“I will look into ways we can make sure Empress Celene is protected. And all our resources are focused on learning what we can about this… Corypheus,” Josephine said with a nod.

“I might be able to help with that.”

The group looked up as another figure joined their small gathering, Varric Tethras had climbed up the steps and sauntered into the mead hall.

“What does that mean?”

“I have been digging through a lot of work those past days since we got here. I don’t know if I mentioned this to you, Seeker, but I did have a little… run-in with Corypheus before all this mess started. I have contacted a few old friends, and one might be able to help. They got here late last night and they’d be willing to talk.”

“Good. Bring them in!” Ros declared.

“Err… yes, about that… she’s… not exactly a very public person. She’d rather not parade through the courtyard for everyone to see. Meet me in a few minutes on the battlements above the tavern. She’ll join us there. We don’t know how useful or not our intel may be at this point, but it may still be interesting to talk to someone who actually fought Corypheus.”

“Varric Tethras,” Cassandra said, grimly crossing her arms over her chest. “I _distinctly_ remember you telling me you had no contacts to your old ‘friends’.”

“What can I say, Seeker? I think you should have figured out by now that I lie. A lot,” the dwarf said, and made his way out of the mead hall in a hurry. Cassandra grunted.

“Ugh, that little shit. If I get my hands around his lying, chubby little neck…” she growled. Ros turned towards Cullen.

“I’ll see what he has to say. Will I... see you for our walk later?”

He nodded and she smiled. It had been a small ritual of theirs in the past few days, to meet on the battlements and stroll around the entire castle once. Sometimes hand in hand, sometimes his arm draped over her shoulders and her head leaning against him. It was a quiet moment, when neither of them had to worry about the day’s work. From now on, she guessed, their time together would be even more limited. So she would treasure every second of that walk.

She left the mead hall to find Varric above the tavern, climbing the stone steps to the ramparts and making her way to the platform where she spotted the dwarf. He had turned over a barrel and put a wooden plate on it, with a bottle of wine, some bread and cheese. He nodded when Ros came closer.

“Good, you came. Well. Inquisitor, I want you to meet my good friend, Ariadne Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall.”

Ros gasped. That was a name and title everyone knew these days. Ariadne Hawke, the shunned Vicountess of Kirkwall. Mage, Templar sympathiser, friend of the very apostate who had blown up the Chantry in Kirkwall.

She flew around with wide eyes. The woman who was coming down the steps towards them was tall and slender, with black hair brushed back into a sloppy ponytail. Her skin was weathered and tan, sprinkled with darker freckles, her lips full and bright red, matching the bloody smudge across her nose. Her eyes were a sharp blue, deeper than Ros’ own, and like steel.

She wore rugged armour, worn and torn from travel, and used a staff to support herself a little, Ros noticed the slight limp in her walk. When she was on level with them, she smiled and looked over at Varric.

“You know I don’t use that title anymore,” she said. Her voice was soft, calm, and there was something... weary about it. The voice and eyes of a woman who had seen too much, fought too many, was tired.

Varric came closer to stand beside the Champion.

“Hawke may have some useful tips on how to fight Corypheus.”

But the Champion just sighed.

“You already dropped half a mountain on the bastard. I am not sure how much more help I will be,” she admitted.

“Anything you know might help.”

Hawke nodded. She wandered towards the battlements, leaned forward with her arms crossed on the stone.

“Well, he is a Darkspawn, I think you have figured that much out. For many ages, he has been trapped in a prison in the Vimmark Mountains, near Kirkwall, and Grey Wardens were holding vigil there, guarding the prison, making sure he never escaped. Apparently the seals keeping him there had to be renewed every so often and the last one to do that was my father. What no one seemed to realise was that Corypheus had the ability to communicate through dreams. He convinced the Warden’s charged with guarding him that freeing him would give them a chance to end the Blights once and for all. They fell for it, and they needed my father’s blood to break the seals. My blood. Or my brother’s in fact. They sent indoctrinated thugs after us and lured us into the prison. We broke the seals and fought a very confused Corypheus.”

“We killed him,” Varric added.

“Yes, so we thought…” Hawke admitted. She frowned. “I mean… he was dead. Anders checked for any signs of life, there was nothing. He was dead. But somehow… he’s not dead anymore. I killed him once, you dropped that mountain on him, and he is still around. At this point… I don’t know what else can be done.”

“You said… he controlled Grey Wardens. Cassandra told me that Grey Wardens have been disappearing. Could he have something to do with that?” Ros inquired. Hawke turned back to face her, leaning with her back against the wall.

“I have heard about the Wardens, too. I have a friend in the Wardens and when Varric told me about Corypheus, I have been trying to get in touch with him, because I also thought about the possibility he might be controlling them again. I did not hear anything for a while and then got this. Just a note, it seems to have been all he could slip to me,” Hawke said. She pulled a small strip of parchment from a pocket of her armour and handed it to Ros. She unrolled it. The handwriting was quick, sloppy, but the message was clear.

“On the run. Crestwood. Talk later,” she read out loud. Hawke nodded.

“That sounds like he’s in trouble, but I don’t think he’s being controlled by Corypheus. I was hoping to go to Crestwood and find him. Perhaps the Inquisition wishes to join me, I mean, if there’s anyone who knows how to fight Darkspawn, it’s Warden’s right? And if we’re really dealing with an Archdemon, I guess having a chat with a Warden who actually fought one will probably be useful too.”

“The Hero of Ferelden? Your Warden friend is the Hero of Ferelden?” Ros asked perplexed. Hawke shook her head.

“No, but close enough. He was one of the Hero’s companions. He helped me defend my city against the qunari years ago. Maybe now I can help him.”

Ros nodded and returned the note to the Champion.

“I will talk to Josephine, we will prepare an expedition to Crestwood right away.”

“Good. I will not stay, I will travel ahead and we will meet you there. I’ll let Varric know where we are.”

“Can I… before you leave, can I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure?”

“Anders. What… was he like? Before…?”

Hawke sighed.

“Honestly, I am not even sure if I ever met ‘Anders’. I like to think that he wanted what was best for everyone and that he just… lost sight of that over time. Blowing up that Chantry wasn’t the… act of terrorism everyone made it out to be. It was the act of a desperate man, desperate to be heard in a world that was all too eager to silence people like him,” right there, she hesitated a moment and glanced down at her own feet before meeting Ros’ gaze again. “Like… like us. He tried to be heard and understood in other ways. But when all else failed… it was all he had left.”

“You sound sympathetic…”

“I don’t condone what he did. I never did. Innocents were killed in that explosion. But… I understand where he came from.”

“Yet you sided with the Templars.”

“You know what they say, hm? Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer. I sided with the Templars because I was, and still am, convinced that was the best choice. It put me in the position to calm the tempers on both sides, it allowed me to have a close eye on Meredith and by making her send me to ‘deal’ with ‘problematic mages’ I could get a lot of innocent people out of big trouble. And… my… my little brother is a Templar. He is the only family I have left, I could not fight him, or let Meredith use him to get to me. I know it looks like I betrayed my own people. But I still think I did the best I could.”

“What became of Anders? I know Starkhaven still demands he be handed over to their justice…”

Hawke sighed loudly.

“Sebastian… we had a major falling out over this. Sebastian was a dear friend, before this mess. I understand where he is coming from, too. He lost a mother figure in that explosion. But I was not going to hand Anders over. Besides, I don’t know where he is. After the dust settled, I made sure he got out. Carver took his phylactery and destroyed it. At least that’s what he told me. Wherever he is… I hope he learns that a mage is now leading the most powerful organisation of Thedas,” Hawke said with a smile. “He’d be so proud…”

“What of your other companions?”

“Aveline stayed in Kirkwall. She and Seneshal Bran run the city now, and I dare say they are doing a better job at it than I ever did. Isabela… Maker knows, last time I saw her she was leaving Kirkwall’s harbour on a big ship with a huge hat and she called herself ‘Admiral Isabela’.”

Varric chuckled beside them.

“And the elven mage?”

“Merrill? She disappeared a few months after she helped the Alienage back to its feet. I have not heard from her in a long time, but… I have heard rumours that the Empress of Orlais has taken the council of an elven mage in matters of the arcane… I have no solid information, but I’d like to think Merrill sits in Halamshiral and eats creampuffs all day while having access to all the information our people once stole from her people.”

“And… the one they say was your shadow and protector?”

Hawke glanced down at Varric accusingly.

“It was a literary masterpiece! The _Divine_ wanted me to sign her copy!” the dwarf defended. Hawke sighed.

“He… shadows and protects…”

She half turned, glanced back over her shoulder. Ros looked past her to see what she was seeing. There, in the shadows of a watchtower atop the steps they had come down earlier, stood a man. He was wrapped in a black cloak, with silver and black leather armour shimmering through, and white hair under his hood. He leaned on an enormous broad sword. When he noticed their gazes had wandered to him he weakly nodded towards Hawke. She smiled. “Fenris… he would kill himself to protect me. I’d rather not give him that chance.”

Ros smiled. After having read the Tale of the Champion Varric had written, she had always wondered what had become of the unlikely protagonists of that story. And to know that the lovers were still together gave the strangest hope that even in the direst of circumstances, there could be a measure of happiness.

Hawke pulled her hood back up, covering almost all of her features.

“We will see you in Crestwood then,” Ros said. Hawke nodded. She stepped behind Varric and put both hands on his shoulders. She looked up at Ros with a grin that was so charismatic and sweet, she was not surprised an entire city had gladly followed this woman – no matter how clueless she might have been as a Vicountess.

“Watch over my favourite dwarf. I’d be very cross if you got him killed.”

“I’ll try,” Ros nodded with a smile. Hawke nodded back, then leaned down to smack a kiss on Varric’s ginger hair, before she returned up the steps to join her elven lover. He followed her as they made their way off the battlements, in a guarded position, hand on his sword to attack anyone and anything, if necessary. Varric sighed.

“Ari and Fenris, you and the thane. I seem to have a talent in finding protagonists for my novel that fit the trope ‘ _happy, clueless mage and her broody, protective warrior boyfriend_ ’,” he said. Ros glanced over at him.

“Are you writing a book about me, Varric?”

“I might…”

With these words, Varric made his way down from the battlements himself. Ros sighed a little. She would have to find Josephine and tell her to prepare a mission to Crestwood immediately. Her work as Inquisitor began today.


	19. Various states of undress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going slightly nsfw with this chapter, before the full grade explicit chapter 20 coming later this week. (hehehehe coming... i am so immature!).  
> Have fun with this one!

The mead hall was full of people, full of noise and smells and warmth from the fire bowls and the many bodies in here. The food that had been prepared was dripping in grease, smelled absolutely mouth-watering. The thick coats had been discarded and the men and women were covered in fresh paint. It was the celebration of their return to Skyhold. Several days and nights after their arrival here, the tribe had come together to enjoy being reunited with their loved ones, in their home.

Mia was spinning around both her children to the energetic tunes and drums. Her laughter filled the hall and the loud, joyful squealing of the two curly-haired children could paint a smile on everyone’s faces. There were other children, of course, but these two were the ones who stood out to Cullen.

Ros had not shown herself yet. She had disappeared hours earlier into the room in the tower, with a package she had been given by Vivienne de Fer of the Inquisition and she had been very secretive about it. All she had said was “You’ll see later” and then rushed away, closed the door behind her.

Cullen was anxious. He sat on his throne with a full jug of mead in his hand he had not touched. He had eaten, but he wished she were by his side. He wanted to hear her laughter, wanted to see her enjoy herself as much as she had back during the celebration in Haven, before everything had gone so terribly wrong. He wanted her to feel welcome and if he had a say in it, he wanted her in his arms right now.

Branson came leaping up the steps of the dais with a wide grin and ale in his hand, a lovely young woman in his other arm.

“You look sour, brother. You should drink and dance, it is a fine night!”

“I will. Later,” Cullen replied calmly.

“She might not be coming. She is a lowlander, don’t forget it. What are our custom’s to her?”

“She will come.”

Branson shook his head with a long suffering sigh.

“If you say so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, this young lady wishes to see my sword up close!” he replied with a grin and then, with the chuckling girl tucked under his arm, headed off to the under croft of the castle just below the mead hall. Cullen shook his head as he watched the two disappear. Branson had that effect on women. He always had. Charming like the trickster himself.

Cullen had not stolen away from a feast like this with a girl in a long while. In fact, he was not sure if he had done that ever since he had become thane. Before the Blight, things had been different. He had been as boyish as Bran was today, a strapping young man, with wild, golden curls braided at his side, and he had dallied with many. And not just girls. But that felt like another man’s life now, his youth nothing but a distant memory, overshadowed by Blight and betrayal. He had lost the appetite, had lost the enjoyment of careless rutting in a moist corner of the castle. He had not been entirely aware of it right until Ros came into his life, but perhaps it was because he was looking for something more. Perhaps he was looking for someone who he could wake up to the next morning and could be content with just watching them sleep peacefully in his arms. Perhaps the Gods had made him wait for her.

When he saw the door to the tower open, his head snapped around to see if she had finally decided to join them. She had indeed. And her appearance brought everything in the hall to an abrupt halt.

Cullen rose from his throne, staring at her in complete awe.

She was radiant, positively glowing. She had bathed and cleaned her hair, had cut the wildly growing, dark waves back to the short cut she had when he first found her in the temple ruins. And she wore the most breath-taking dress he had ever seen on a woman. Fabric so light it might as well have been made from woven mist threaded together by light, colours as soft as clouds melting into each other like dawn in the mountains – soft pink and orange and the palest blue as her eyes. The dress was held in the neck with golden embroidery and fell loosely around her slender form, then held together around her waist by a leather belt she had used before to hold up the skirts Mia had given to her. She wore a light brown fur draped over her shoulders and her boots were almost completely hidden under the long, flowing skirt of the dress.

Taken aback by the stares, pink snuck into her cheeks and she brushed back her hair, then pulled the fur closer around her.

“It’s too much, isn’t it…?” she whispered nervously.

“No… no, you’re… you look stunning…” he managed to articulate. She smiled shyly, glancing up through her lashes. He saw her shoulders relax under the fur and she stepped closer to the throne, closer to him. He was unable to pull his eyes from her. From her lovely face, her beautiful form, the gown she wore. When she stood before him, his hands came to her face, brushed over her cheeks. “You take my breath away, Róisín.”

He leaned closer, kissed her lower lip, his hands cupping her face. Her skin was impossibly soft to the touch, and she smelt of lavender and honey. The drums brought up a roaring rhythm joined by the howling cheers of his tribe. He could not fight the smile and she broke the kiss with a chuckle, bright red on her cheeks now.

“Is that… normal?”

“If you could see yourself you would know why they do it.”

She chuckled still, and he led her to the throne with him. It felt inappropriate, unthinkable even, to let her sit on the bench beside him while he flaunted in the cushioned, warm throne, so he led her by the hands and made her sit down under the sun of the Lady instead. Never once pulling his gaze from her, he sat down on the bench he pulled closer, close enough so he would not have to release her hands that lay so softly in his. He offered her warm mead, watched as she took a sip and wondered how long her lips would taste of honey and how long it would take for him to kiss the taste away from them.

She watched the dancing Avvar while she ate her food, and he watched her. Only her. One hand trailed towards her knee, brushed gently over the impossibly soft fabric. “Is this what Vivienne gave to you?”

“I told you you’d get to see it later,” she said with a bright eyed smile towards him.

“It’s beautiful on you,” he whispered. He wondered if it felt as good to her, to feel his caress through the fabric, as it felt for him to feel a hint of her skin. Heat was prickling on his skin at the thought of them alone, of him sliding that fine fabric off her body and lying her down on his bed. There would be no rush, no blind quenching of desires. He would worship her, he would kiss every inch of her skin, would make her tremble, her breath hitch in her throat as pleasure washed over her. He wanted to know what she looked like, chest heaving with laboured breaths, lips parted in moans, he wanted to know the sounds she made when she found release in his arms, wanted to know what his name sounded like when she gasped it at her climax.

He wanted her. By the Gods, he had contemplated the thought often, mulled it over in the past weeks, but now more than ever did he know he wanted her, wanted to leave his mark on her, claim her, make her his, make her forget any other man who might have ever bedded her.

He swallowed hard, felt the arousal boil down to his core, felt the fire in his loins. And he finally had to tear his gaze away from her, or she would be his undoing.

They shared food and cheered on the dancers who had, under the influence of mead and ale, shed their inhibitions (of which Avvar had very little to begin with, he had to admit) and where dancing mad through the hall. Bodies rubbing against each other electrifying heat filling the hall. Who knew how many hours went until the food was gone and the music slowed and people slowly made their way to their tents and huts. They were supporting each other, singing loud and out of tune and laughing as they made their way out of the hall.

Cullen took his beautiful Róisín back to her rooms and at the bottom of the stairs that led up to it from his small chamber where he lay watch, they kissed. Long and blissful, her arms slipping under his black lion furs, stroking over his painted shoulders, his arm wrapped around her, pressing her flush against him with only that thin dress and his paint between them. They parted breathless and in the light of the torches, her eyes were unusually dark, her breaths deep despite a slight tremble in them. Her fingers still wandered, followed the lines of paint across his torso.

“Do you sleep in it?” she asked in a low voice.

“I’ll wash it off before…” he replied, realised how breathy his own voice had grown. Róisín pulled her lower lip between her teeth and he felt his knees turn weak. Gods he loved it when she did that and he was growing more certain that she knew that very well, that she did it on purpose because she knew it was driving him insane.

“I could… help you?” she offered, wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned closer.

“I can’t let you… it’s… removing the paint of another, it’s… traditionally something only spouses do,” he said, when what he wanted to say was ‘ _yes, please help me remove the paint and be my wife_ ’.

“Oh… I… I didn’t mean to offend, I… If you’d feel uncomfortable…”

He caught her hands. He wanted to be honest, he wanted her to understand.

“Ros, I would not feel uncomfortable. I just want us to… be on the same page. I want you to understand that… you washing the paint off me means something. To me. The paint is a second skin, it means you will be under my skin, it is a bond. I understand that it won’t mean that to you. But I need you to understand that it will mean that for me. I need you to understand that I want you… and that this is not something I’d let you do lightly.”

She smiled, and stepped towards him, a hand on his cheek.

“I understand. And I want this. If you… want this… want _me_ …”

He was quite certain he was wax in her hands. Of course he wanted this. He wanted her, had wanted her for so long!

“I want this… I want _you_. I want you so much I am not sure if I am not just dreaming this right now.”

She chuckled her sweetest and went to her tiptoes to press the softest kiss on the scar on his lip.

“No dream, I promise,” she whispered. She stepped away and took his hands, held on to them when she climbed the final set of stairs up to her room.

The air here was warm from the crackling flames in the small fireplace, and the scent of her bath oils still hung in the air, mild now, but making him drunk on the scent he associated with her. The bed was made, cushions and furs arranged for someone to curl up in them comfortably.

She took him over to the fireplace, made him sit down on a wooden stool while she went to her bathing chamber and brought back a bowl of water and a piece of cloth. The water was cold now, almost freezing, he could tell by the way her hand left prints on the outside of the bowl. She took the piece of dark cloth, soaked it, wrung it out and then ran the dripping cloth over his painted chest. Ice cold droplets ran down his torso, made him shiver. Paint came off him in crusting clumps revealing his scarred skin to the fading light in her room.

They did not speak.

She submerged the cloth again and shrugged out of her fur coat now, let it fall on the floor before she opened the clasps of his black lion. She slipped it off his shoulders, let it join her furs. Then she took the piece of cloth again and continued cleaning him, his shoulders, rubbing off the layer of paint and clay that covered him, stripping him down to his bare skin. Once his shoulders were bared, she ran her hands over his skin, gently rubbing his tense muscles, making him groan.

“Róisín,” he begged, looked up to meet her gaze. “I… I can’t let you…”

She paused in her movements, her hands left his skin and he felt the loss of her touch. It made him catch her wrist. He could not let her do this because of how vulnerable it made him feel. But he also could not let her stop because this was no doubt the most intimate he had ever been with anyone and he did not want her to stop. He did not want her to ever stop again.

“May I?” she whispered, softly. He nodded, kissed her hand and then released it to let her continue.

Her eyes focused on her task, cleaning all the paint she could find off his skin systematically. His back, his stomach, his arms, always first with the cloth, then with gentle strokes of her warm hands, working against the cold water.

It was not until she came closer and went to her knees before him to clean the paint of his legs that he realised Róisín Trevelyan was on a mission. She had put on that dress with a mission tonight, she had come down into the mead hall with a mission, her every look, every shy smile, every accidental brush of hands, it had all been calculated and he admired how determined she was without letting him see it. She had decided, for some reason, that he would belong to her tonight. And he did. He did so unconditionally.

“Do you remember what you told me, that night in your tent in the Mire? That you would only bed me if I asked you to?” she asked, when she brushed the cloth over his thighs to remove the paint there.

“I remember it well,” he said. How could he ever forget?

Her fingers burned like fire on his skin and there was no point in even trying to hide his arousal under the loincloth. He was so hard it was painful. He groaned when her nails gently scraped over his skin, leaving faint, red marks. He had to lean forward, dizzy with how much he wanted her, with how much he needed to bury himself in her right now. He was not even completely aware that she had removed all paint from him when she rose to her feet again, gathered the skirt of her dress and came to straddle him. Where wet hands had touched the fabric, it had begun to stick to her skin and become almost translucent, clinging to the shape of her thighs and her breasts when she moved closer to his body. Her hips rolled against his and a sharp hiss escaped him. “Róisín!” he begged, because by the Gods, she was playing with fire.  

“I am asking you now, Cullen,” she whispered, her warm hands on his cheeks, her lips hovering on his.

“Are you sure? You were… reluctant earlier… I don’t want you to do something you don’t wa-”

She silenced him with a kiss this time and he decided to throw caution to the wind. His arms closed around her instantly, hands on her behind as she pressed closer, the fabric of her dress gathering between them and her breasts against his chest. He could feel her pert nipples against him and the thought of what he wanted to do to them with his mouth and his tongue was nearly enough to make him forget himself. He squeezed the firm flesh of her bottom with his hands and hefted her up as he got to his feet. Her legs wrapped around him, grinding her hips against him and she moaned in his mouth, fingers digging through his curls.

“I need you… Cullen, I need you…” she breathed on his lips. He carried her to the bed and they dropped into the cushions – now he wondered if she had arranged them with the plan in mind to bring him back here tonight. But that thought only occupied his mind for a second, before all his attention was on the woman beneath him now, this beautiful woman who had chosen him. And he would make that choice worth it.

 

Róisín Trevelyan was a woman on a mission.

When she looked at herself in the mirror now, she saw what she could have been, had she not been taken to the Circle so young. A noblewoman, well aware of her beauty, dressed in finest orlesian chiffon. And nothing else.

She was naked under that dress, and she felt it, only a thin layer of fabric separating her from the cold room. She kindled the fire, breathed a little magic into it, to keep it going even when she was out for the feast in the mead hall. Her breath was trembling a little at the thought of what she hoped to do tonight.

She had mulled it over many nights now. Had lain awake in her large bed alone, remembering that proximity between her and Cullen back in his tent. The way his hands had caressed her back, the way his lips had seared against hers, the moan she had not been able to control when she had – more accidentally – come against his hardened flesh. It had been on her mind often, despite her initial determination to not give into these desires. She could not stop thinking what he might feel like, his skin pressed against hers. She wondered what his lips felt like anywhere other than her lips, how his hands would roam over her no longer with paint between them. His words back in the Fallow Mire echoed through her mind. Had he not made a move because he was waiting for her to ask, giving her the space to decide on her own if she wanted him or not?

And Maker’s breath, she wanted him! And she had decided that tonight she would forget about her fears and worries, would no longer let her past control her, but see what the future might hold, see what that Avvar had to offer.

So she went downstairs to the feast, determined to bring him back with her later. To give herself to him, and take him for herself in return. But when she peeked out of the door into the mead hall, her determination faltered. Oh Maker, she was such a chicken! She should just go back upstairs and stay there. For the rest of her life. Yes, that was a good idea! Yet when she was just about to turn away, she spotted something in the crowd of people in the mead hall. A large, floppy hat hiding a scrawny boy standing by himself, looking at her, wordlessly telling her it was alright to be scared, but it would be worth being brave.

She drew in a deep breath, straightened the fur on her shoulders and stepped out so take part in the events of the night.

And what a lovely night it was. The music, the food, the laughter and dancing – even though she did not dance at all, and neither did Cullen. He simply sat by her side, let her sit in his throne and he watched her all night. Every time she stole a glance, his eyes were on her, the light of torches dancing golden in his brown, somehow darker today than it usually was. And he looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing in the world. Like she was a glimpse of the sun after an endless darkness. It made her heart race, her skin tickle with giddy excitement. And her determination slowly returned. Her confidence grew with each passing minute, knowing how much he adored her, and having him tell her so.

“You take my breath away, Róisín,” he had said, and it was a good thing she was already sitting down, for the memory alone made her knees turn weak. The way his hand rested on her knee, thumb gently stroking almost absentmindedly, like he was unaware of the effect it had on her. But she could feel the calloused fingers through the light chiffon, and the touch sent jolts of electricity right through her, pooling in her core.

By the time the feast dissolved and people started leaving, she was certain she would spontaneously combust with the heat that was building inside her. It was suffocating her, made her dizzy and shaky on her legs when she got to her feet finally and the two of them headed into the tower. They crossed his room, the small chamber where he slept on his bedroll, and on the stairs to the large tower chambers he had gifted her, she turned to him. She stood on her tiptoes, brushed back his blond curls and kissed him. His arms came around her, held her flush against him, his hand under the fur cloak she wore, fingers splayed on her bare back. His lips were warm, tasted of mead and his familiar taste she could barely get enough of. They stood like this, she did not know how long. It may have been hours, just kissing, tongues brushing in gentle strokes, lips moving against each other.

When she asked him if she could help remove the paint on his body, his voice cracked. She had her lower lip pulled between her teeth and it made him shudder, she knew he loved it. Of course she knew, and she was determined to use it. What she had not expected (although given everything seemed to have a symbolic meaning in Avvar culture she _should_ have) was the meaning behind washing off the paint of another. She hesitated, confidence waning. She could understand his reluctance. Could understand that he did not want something so meaningful so soon, without having talked about it. And she pulled back, almost certain this would be where they parted ways tonight.

But he caught her hands and explained. Explained that he wanted her to understand that it meant something to him, that letting her wash him was important to him and that he wanted her, that he wanted to share that with her. It made her heart ache, humbled her to know how vulnerable he allowed himself to be around her. She came closer, reached to touch his skin. So fierce out there, so gentle here with her. And she could not blame him for thinking this was a dream. Because Maker knew, she had dreamt about it, about them.

So she led him upstairs. The rooms were quiet and warm, the magic fire fulfilling its purpose. She made him sit on the stool in front of the fire and began cleaning him. How long it took, she did not know. She savoured every moment of it, every chance she got to brush her hands over his skin as the paint came away. Her fingertips followed rough scars, gently traced patterns across his torso. Once, he pulled back, and she stopped immediately. But the moment lasted only briefly and he met her gaze, and he kissed her hand, and he let her continue.

He exposed himself. She knew that. Knew that despite him running around in barely more than a loincloth and paint most days, despite him having undressed in front of her on their very first night in the tent together, this was the most naked he had ever been with her. This was the most vulnerable he allowed himself to be and she treasured it, she treasured him, treasured this moment.

She brushed the piece of cloth down his legs to clean him and every touch sent shivers through him, she felt him shudder and when she looked up, his eyes were closed. As she finished cleaning the paint off him, she asked about that night so long ago, in the Fallow Mire, where he had assured her that he would only ever bed her if she asked him to and never force her. He told her through gritted teeth that he remembered, and when she gently ran her fingernails down his thigh, he groaned. Maker’s breath if this was a taste of things to come, if this was how he responded to her touch, she wanted more, so much more, all of it.

She rose to her feet, gathered the wide skirt of her dress and climbed astride him with newfound confidence. His skin was wet from the towel, cool against her own, made her shiver a little.

“I am asking you know, Cullen,” she whispered, her lips just above his, just close enough to feel their warmth.

He stammered, wanted to make sure she wanted this, wanted him, wanted her to know he would not pressure her. And she closed her lips over his.

His arms came around her immediately, pulling her flush against him and his hands, cool through the fabric, kneaded into her behind. It made her roll her hips against him, made her moan into his kiss. Maker he was hard! She could feel his length clearly through his loincloth and through her complete absence of undergarments (for she had been a woman on a mission and that mission was reaching completion). She gasped surprised when he rose off the stool and she had to wrap her legs around him to stay with him, arms around his neck, hands in his hair, kiss unbroken. The air was burning around her, and she drew in a deep breath. And when she let go of the air, it formed hungry whispers.

“I need you... Cullen, I need you...” she gasped, grinding her hips against him. She did not see where they were going, too focused on the sensation of his hands, his lips, his body so close to her. And then they fell.


	20. With Passionate Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is literally no plot in this chapter. None. This is just 3,000 words of smut, dirty 'the dawn will come' puns and all. Explicitly nsfw. Enjoy :)

His body was over her, large and heavy and warm. Both arms rested next to her head, he used his elbows to hold himself up, to not crush her. His head dipped down, golden curls tickling against her face as burning lips trailed down her throat, up the side of her neck to her earlobe again. His hips rolled against her when he pulled her soft earlobe between his teeth gently and she moaned.

Her hands travelled up his sides, over his cool, damp skin, warming him with the magic in her fingers. Under her touch, she felt his skin – soft but for old scars. She felt his muscles tense under her light fingertips, as if ticklish between his hips and his ribs.

“Cullen,” she breathed, eyes fluttering close at the sensation of his warm lips on her skin.

“Róisín,” he returned, his breath hot against her skin.

One hand travelled down to her knee, she felt his touch through the fabric of her dress, gentle but sure as he pulled up the wide skirt for his fingers to finally touch skin. It sent shivers through her, prickling excitement and gooseflesh. And moans. His open mouth came to the flesh of her neck, his tongue brushing over her pulse, warm and rough. He hummed in approval as the taste of her skin filled his mouth. Thorough, as if intent to taste every inch of her, his mouth trailed along her collarbone, his tongue drawing fine strokes over her. He nibbled and kissed towards the nape of her neck, and she quivered at the feeling.

Her arms came around him, fingernails lightly digging into his back and pressing his body down towards her. His hips ground into hers, the rough hide of his loincloth tangled with the fine chiffon of her dress.

Ros groaned upset when his lips pulled away from her skin as Cullen sat up, but his hands caught her wrists and pulled her up against him. She gasped, his lips crushing to hers, drawing another moan from her, with his tongue meeting hers between their mouths. She was so dizzy with the attention, she did not notice that one hand travelled behind her back at first. She felt his fingers stroke down her spine, then he pressed down, arched her back towards him as he pushed up. He inhaled deeply as their bodies came together and he groaned. His teeth bit down on her lower lip, not painful, but just hard enough to make her hiss.

She stumbled when he leaned back to sit on his heels and she was astride his lap, her arms around his neck for support and her fingers in his hair. And finally his fingers found the silk ribbon holding up her dress. She felt his smirk against her lips when he twirled the silk around a finger and then pulled down ever so slowly. The ribbon dissolved and the fabric covering her loosened considerably, the only thing holding it up now being their bodies.

Cullen leaned away and let the dress slip off her, exposing her breasts. Ros drew in a trembling breath, watched Cullen’s features as he drank in the sight. His eyes travelled over her naked form and, perhaps for the first time, his cheeks were flushed. He breathed through his lips, and briefly, his eyes meet hers. The gold was muted now, lust darkening the embers. His hands came up her sides, to cup her breasts and he kneaded into them once, his thumbs circling her nipples that had grown hard and sensitive to his touch.

“Ah… Cullen…” she moaned, and he glanced up at her eyes again.

“You are unbelievably beautiful…” he whispered. He left one hand over her heart, the other arm travelled around her, holding her firm against him as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her collarbone. Ros shuddered in anticipation as his kiss began to wander. Lips brushed over her skin, between the swell of her breasts and then slowly up over the soft flesh towards its hardened peak.

She whimpered when his lips closed around the nipple, as his tongue swirled over it, as he sucked and teased. Her head fell back and her finger dug into his curls. Maker’s breathe, she could barely even think. The way he held her, the way his fingers kneaded and his lips assaulted her breasts, it made breathing near impossible, too busy with gasps and moans and fervent whispers of his name. Her stomach clenched, heat pooling between her thighs. She was aching, for his touch, for him, aching to be filled by him, claimed by him. But Maker, he took his time!

“Cullen, please… I need…”

She felt his lips curl into a smile and he glanced up from where his lips still teased her breasts. She watched as he very gently held the hard nipple between his teeth, flicking over the peak with his tongue, and she could feel her body tighten at the sight. “Maker, please!”

“Hmm… not quite yet… I have waited too long for this to be over so soon. I will have my way with you until the dawn comes…”

“The dawn will not be the only one coming if you keep this up…” she groaned. His smirk was downright dirty.

“Oh?”

His hand left her breast and rustled through the fabric of her skirt. She felt his fingertips on the inside of her thighs, travelling up slowly, never once taking his eyes off her. She shuddered when his fingers brushed through the rough curls above her sex and when one finger stroked lower, brushed between her folds, she cried out, very nearly blacked out. Maker, she had longed for him to touch her like this. She whimpered when his finger stroked over her entrance with just a hint of pressure, just enough to make her ache for more when he stroked up again. He smirked and glanced down between them, licked his lips. “How wet you are…” he whispered.

“Cullen,” she whimpered, rolling her hips against him, pressing down into his hand.

“Hm…” he hummed as he stroked along her folds, searching, teasing, until –

Maker’s breath, until he pressed against the bundle of her clit and made her cry out. His strokes grew more focused, assaulting that tight spot relentless, pressing and squeezing and stroking his fingers – soaking with her arousal – over her. Pressing and squeezing and stroking her towards the edge. Close, so close, so –

But just as she was about to fall, just as she was about to come undone, his hand pulled away. Ros cried out in frustration.

“Don’t stop!”

“I want to taste you when you come for me.”

His hand pulled out from under her skirt, glistening wet and he was impossibly smug about it, slowly dragging his tongue over his fingers to taste her. He closed his eyes, savouring the taste, and when he had licked his hand clean, he gave her a determined push back into the cushions. Ros gasped as she fell backwards and landed softly. Not a moment later, Cullen had undone her belt and flung it aside. He got up from his knees and stood to pull the dress from her and when he did, she could see his loincloth betraying his own need. The hide was bulged out by his erection.

Once her dress was on the floor, she sat up and hooked her fingers into the band holding the cloth on his hips. She pulled him closer by it and he growled when she looked up to meet his gaze. “Róisín…” he said, his voice gruff, his breath shaking.

“What?” she asked, when she came to playfully nibble at the bump of his hipbone, just poking out over the band. He groaned when she did, and his hand closed to a fist in her hair. “Can’t handle a little teasing?”

She moved up, sat on her heels and opened his belt. The loincloth came apart and dropped to the floor at his feet, exposing his erection to her. She kissed along his hip, closer, ever closer to the base of his cock and she felt him twitch, breath hitched in his throat, grip tightening on her hair. He stifled a throaty roar when her hands came to rest on his firm behind and her tongue stroked up his length, base to tip. She looked up, saw his teeth gritted together and his golden eyes fixed on her.

“Róisín,” he uttered, voice trembling as she let her tongue glide over his tip, before she closed her mouth over him. His hips jerked forward, sinking his cock into her mouth, making her gasp. Her nails were digging into his behind, to suppress the gagging as his tip hit the back of her open throat. But before she could do anything, he had pulled her away by her hair. He was panting. “Gods, Ros, you make me weak…”

“I take that as a compliment,” she said and lay back down on the cushions. He smirked as he came closer, climbed back onto the bed and pressed a kiss on her left ankle, up to her knees where he paused a moment before his fingertips stroked the hollow of her knee so gentle and teasing it made her shiver and bite her lip. He smiled and hummed.

“Hm… I wanted to see you just like that…”

There was no more pause when he spread her legs, made her gasp as he hoisted them over his shoulders and pulled her towards him. His face halted only inches from her wet heat, his breath in warm puffs over her folds.

The tip of his tongue came first. Darted out of his open mouth and probed her folds. He circled her clit with it, denying her the sensation of outright licking it, driving her mad with desire. His arms wrapped around her legs to give his hands access to her, he parted her folds with his fingertips and the tip of that clever tongue of his travelled teasingly along the rim, licking up the juices of her sex. She gasped and whimpered and arched her back, hips pushed towards him, longing, needing for more. But he gave only on his terms, made her wait, made her cry with need. Only then did his mouth close over her and his tongue plunged into her entrance. She felt it swirl and devour, felt his lips suckle on her folds, the stubble of his face rasp against her sensitive flesh. She watched him breathless, his eyes closed as he enjoyed her, his hands stroking up and down her thighs.

“Maker, Cullen!” she cried out when his tongue pulled from within her and lapped across her clit before swirling over it, sucking it. He pulled away just briefly, just to cast a burning look at her from his amber eyes.

“Come for me, Ros. I want to taste you. Come for me.”

His lips closed over her again and his magnificent tongue worked her, gave her what his fingers had denied her earlier.

She cried out, head falling back as she tightened, as she came in an almost brutal climax. She felt her insides explode with pleasure, thighs clenched against his cheeks as he kept going, as he kept her in that blissful moment, let her ride out the feeling of coming on his hot tongue. Her chest was heaving with laboured breaths as she slowly came down, limbs completely relaxed and exhausted. His tongue was gentle now, soft and sweet as he lapped up the juices of her orgasm. He licked her clean and then looked up. Wetness dripped from his chin, thick as honey and he licked his lips, pleased with himself and with how entirely, marvellously exhausted she was. Maker knew, she had never come this strongly, had never been this completely undone by a man’s tongue.

Her hands were shaking when she reached for him and he met her halfway, crawled over her body and into her open arms. He kissed her breasts, her collarbone, her lips. She could taste herself on him, musky and somewhat salty as he shared his clever tongue with her.

“That… that was… Maker, I…”

He kissed her again and brushed his nose against hers.

“I am not done with you yet, my beautiful.”

His hand travelled between them, brushed over her sweat slicked stomach and between her thighs. His thumb circled and pressed her clit, made her hum in approval.

“You really want me to go out of my mind tonight, don’t you?” she asked in a husky breath. He smirked.

“What can I say? You are most addictive…” he whispered, while his fingers fervently stroked her wetness. She ground her hip against him, made him squirm as she pressed her slick folds against his hard length.

“Please, Cullen…”

His hand moved to his shaft, fingers closed around it and he groaned, too overwhelmed by his own arousal. He leaned forward, his forehead against hers as he repositioned himself. Her breath caught between them when she felt him, the tip of him stroke along her sex. It made her wonder how he could be so calm, so composed, when he was so hard it had to be painful. And she was aching for him so much she wanted to cry. How could he bear it?

She caught his face in both hands, made his golden eyes meet hers, their breaths mingling. “Do you want me, Cullen?”

He groaned when she pushed up her hips just a little, just enough to tease him.

“I do. I want you… I want you so much…”

“Then what are you waiting for…?” she asked.

“I want to make this last. If I am inside you now, I’ll…”

“Make it last next time! I swear I will go insane if you don’t take me right now!” she cried out in frustration. His arm wrapped around her, the other used to prop himself up on his elbow over her. His hand came to the small of her back to angle her hips towards him and he pushed down and forward, burying himself in her in one deep thrust.

He grunted, his head fell forward, face buried at the nape of her neck and Ros gasped as he filled her, stretched her, buried himself in her hot centre.

“You… you feel incredible…” he groaned.

She could not respond, all words had gotten completely away from her and all she could do was wrap her arms around him to hold him against her. He stayed only a heartbeat before he started to move and pulled out of her. Almost completely, until only his tip was just barely inside her. He groaned, feeling cold without her around him, but he was incredibly slow to push back in. Inch by inch, he made her feel every moment of it as he pushed into her until their bodies could not get any closer. Only then did he slowly pick up his pace, pulling out and thrusting into her faster with ever time their flesh collided. And every new thrust drew moans from her. Her fingernails were digging into his shoulders, teeth catching his earlobe as he held her body against him, pushed into her.

Her hip jerked up and he groaned. He sat back on his heels, his knees under her, making her arch her back to accommodate. His hands were on her hips, fingers kneading into her flesh, bruising maybe, as his hips started jerking into her. Harder now, faster, skin clashing with wet slaps, her moans and cries of pleasure mixed with his wild grunts. She looked up at him, at his taut muscles, sweat rolling over his skin, his teeth gritted from his focus on only feeling her. And when she looked down between them she could watch their flesh unite with every thrust, could watch his length pull out of her, slickened by her juices, before he slipped back in, plunged back into her wetness, deeper and ever deeper with every thrust it seemed.

“Ahhh… Cullen… _Cullen_ …” she cried, his name like a prayer on her lips as she clutched to the sheets under her. And perhaps it was that, her crying his name in pleasure, that made him lose his last bit of control. He cried out, fell forward on one elbow, his blonde curls fanned over her neck and lips as he hammered into her, hard and erratic, nails digging into her hips. Her moans came quick and shallow, overwhelmed and dizzy with the pace, breathless. And then, with one last roar of pleasure, he stilled. She gasped and held in her breath as she could feel herself clench around him the moment he stilled and his body pressed against her clit. She felt him spill, hot bursts of his seed shooting into her, filling her as her walls clenched around him and made his breath catch and burn on her skin. Finally, she let go of the breath she had been holding, felt like she was reduced to nothing but embers, simmering heat coating her body still as he collapsed atop her. He was breathing in slow, deep grunts as his head rested on her damp chest and her hand came up to caress his sweaty curls.

He groaned ever so lightly when he carefully pulled out of her and rolled off her, leaving them breathless next to each other, both spent and exhausted, but she could see the bliss on his face. He turned his face towards her, caught her gaze and for a long, silent moment, they simply looked at each other, both still with passionate breath. She rolled to her side, limbs weak, but still she could reach over and caress his cheek.

“I love you…” she whispered. He smiled, turned his head ever so slightly to brush his lips over her palm.

“And I love you, my beautiful lowlander…” he returned. Then his arms reached around her to pull her against him, their skin still simmering. He bedded them on cushions and pulled a fur around their naked bodies, keeping the warmth between them. Her head rested on his chest, arm draped over him and she felt him press a kiss to her hair. And with his thumbs drawing circles on her back, her eyelids turned heavy, sleep claiming its tribute from her.

“I… know you wanted your way with me until dawn… but could we… sleep for an hour or two?” she asked. All she got in return was an unintelligible mumble, then the slightest snore and when she glanced up she found Cullen had already fallen asleep. She smiled, snuggled in closer to him and closed her eyes too. For what better way to spend the night was there to lying curled up in the arms of her lover?


	21. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More explicit content in the first bit of this chapter. After that it will be harmless for a little while :)

He woke disoriented. Cool, high noon sunlight fell in through stained glass windows and he lay on a soft bed, surrounded by comfortable cushions and furs and the smell of lavender and vanilla. His first, confused thought was that he had slept too long, that he had duties to tend to. But his second thought threw all that aside and found the clear priority of his morning.

Róisín lay curled up by his side, arm clutching to him, her naked skin soft and warm under his hands. He recalled the night they had spent together, here in this very bed.

He recalled the moment of pulling that beautiful dress of her and laying eyes on her naked body for the first time. He recalled the moans and cries of pleasure he had coaxed from her between those cushions that night, recalled the taste of her orgasm on his tongue, her thighs aquiver over his shoulders, her hand a fist in his hair when she came. He remembered the look on her face, the unspeakable bliss as she climaxed. Oh and he remembered her on her knees before him, remembered her tongue travel up his hard length with her bright eyes watching his face as her lips closed around him, as she took all of him into her hot, wet mouth and had very nearly undone him then and there. And the memory of it right now made his cock twitch under the furs. He remembered her lying on her back before him, splayed out as he sank his cock deep into her, remembered the feeling of her, so hot, so slick, remembered the way her walls clenched around him as she came again, as she shuddered under him, crying his name.

He groaned a little at the memory, and at the feeling of his cock hardening yet again, aching to be surrounded by her again. His fingertips stroked up and down her arms lightly, and he felt her stir a little, press closer to him, her breasts warm against his side, drawing a pained sigh from him.

His free hand reached under the furs to grip the base of his erection and he peeked out of one eye at the still slumbering woman by his side. He squeezed, groaned a little and drew in a deep breath to silence his pleasure as he began stroking and squeezing. He was not very successful. It took only a moment for her to stir again and look up at him out of sleepy eyes. He stopped the movement of his hand and smiled.

“Good morning.”

She smiled back.

“Good morning. Sleep well?”

“Perfect. With you in my arms.”

“Hmm…” she sighed blissfully as she snuggled closer to him. He drew in a trembling breath at the sensation of her naked flesh against him. Gods have mercy, this woman was like a drug. “Me too. It was… quite the night…”

“That it was…” he replied, his voice hoarse in his throat. It made her look up and he was certain, no matter how well he tried to hide it, she noticed his tormented expression. She glanced down and with a languid stroke of her fingers down from his chest across his navel and through the rough blond curls crowning his cock, her fingertips brushed along his erection. He hissed when she did.

Ros sat up, the furs sliding off her to reveal her beautiful form. In the sunlight, he could see every little detail of her – the soft colour of her skin, the many orange freckles covering her shoulders and arms, neck and the swell of her breasts, the nipples in supple pink, hardening against the chill of the morning air like rosebuds just about to burst into bloom. He wanted to close his mouth over these nipples, wanted to lavish her, hear these sweet moans again.

But before he could reach for her, she had crawled down and pulled away the furs that had covered him. Her hands stroked his thighs and he moaned, propped himself up on his elbows. She shook her head.

“Lie back down,” she ordered, her blue eyes meeting his. And he obeyed, slowly leaned back down and watched her as she knelt between his legs. Her hands stroked up his thighs and she leaned down, pressed a kiss to the base of his cock. Her lips parted ever so slightly to suckle at the sensitive skin, making him groan. He shuffled up again and reached for her, she instantly pulled away. “Ah. You sit up, I stop.”

“I won’t last long, Ros…”

“Hmmm, I’m counting on it…” she hummed and just before she moved down again he saw a devious little smirk on her lips. Gods, that woman! The tip of her tongue teased up his throbbing, hard flesh, just as teasing as he had been when his tongue had explored her folds the night before. His hips bucked when she reached his tip and a hand came to cup his balls, stroked him gently, making him tight with an arousal he had never known, not as far as he remembered. Her lips covered his tip, gentle, teasing sucks with her moist tongue swirling over him. His jaws clenched, hands gripping tight onto the furs to keep himself from sitting up. Because he could not bear the thought of her stopping. Lying on his back at her mercy as she teased him.

“Ah… Ros… I’ll…”

He felt her lips pull into a smile. Her hand closed around his shaft and moved him a little towards her so she had better access. Her mouth came over him. His heels dug into the mattress and a groan escaped him. Her head came down cautiously, mouth taking all of him in. Her lips were soft against his flesh, the texture of her tongue against him was maddening and she breathed steady as her nose touched his stomach, the length of him shafted in her wet mouth. She proceeded to pull back, sucking in as she did, lips squeezing around his cock as she released him inch by inch and he wanted to burst. His head fell back, a sound left his mouth he did not even know he could make.

Once she reached his tip again, her mouth opened and she let her tongue swirl over him, spit dripping down his length. She waited only a heartbeat before she came around his cock again, one hand wrapped around him, the other digging into his behind, making his hips jerk. She began pumping him, with her hand and with her lips, her head bobbing up and down before him as she sucked and squeezed and he could hardly breathe. He was so close to coming, so close.

He could no longer take it. He shot up, his hands in her hair, his hips thrusting in time with her head, fucking her mouth and when she hummed, her voice vibrating around his cock, he burst. He spilled himself in her mouth, shot his seed into her and met her blue-eyed gaze when he did. She kept going, kept pumping and sucking until every last drop of him was spent, she licked him clean and only then did she sit up. His cock fell from her mouth, spent and limb, and he watched her swallow. She wiped a finger over her lips, plump and red from the effort, and then licked that finger.

Cullen fell back onto the bed, breathless.

“Gods have mercy, Ros… what do they teach you in these Circles?!” he asked breathless. She chuckled as she crawled over his body, crossed her arms on his chest and rested her chin there.

“We get very bored in the Circle. There’s not much to do other than read.”

“You had practice, I take it…”

“Enough. I… have never had anything like we did last night. No one ever made me feel like this before. I wanted to give a bit of it back,” she said, sounded almost a little embarrassed.

“You did… Gods… you did…” he sighed, closed his eyes and brushed his fingers through her hair.

“I… hope you’re not upset that I’ve… been with other men?”

“Ros, as long as they treated you like the Queen you are…”

He saw her hesitate and he knew they had not. At least not all of them. He pulled her up towards his lips and kissed both corners of her mouth, then her lips, let the kiss linger as he tasted himself on her tongue. Only then did he brush her hair behind her ear. “Well, I will,” He said and sat up. He made her roll to her back and pressed a kiss onto her collarbone before he climbed off the bed.

“Where are you going?” she asked perplexed as he wrapped his loincloth around himself.

“The kitchens. My Queen deserves breakfast in bed.”

She chuckled.

“I think technically it is more lunch.”

“Then lunch in bed it is. We need to keep our strength. And if after lunch you feel like it, I’ll make you come again, and again, and again…”

He saw her draw in a sharp breath, her thighs clenching together and it made him make a u-turn on his heels. He came back, coaxed her knees apart and watched her as his head came down between her legs. Her musky smell surrounded him as his tongue found her wet sex. Oh she was ready, and when his tongue stroked over her slowly, she gasped and jerked her hips against his face. He smiled, and then pulled away, earning a huff of protest from her. “Lunch first,” he said and with a mischievous smile he left her to her own devices.

Not for long, he thought, as he hurried down the steps. He would not leave her alone for long, there was just too much he wanted to do with her before this day was done. 

* * *

 

It was not until the next morning that they actually emerged from her bedroom. Cullen had gone two more times to get them food – once in the evening of that same day and once more just after midnight. And it had been a blissful day. Maker’s breath, she could not remember ever having been this happy and satisfied, to the point where nothing else in the world seemed to matter. For a good 24 hours, all worries seemed forgotten, there was no Corypheus, no mysterious Warden disappearances, no duties and responsibilities. There was just the two of them, naked and horizontal. Just sleeping, eating, whispers of adoration between hot kisses and lovemaking, passionate and intense once, gentle and soft the next time.

By that next morning, she was not entirely sure she would be able to get up, let alone walk, but they both agreed that it was time, that they had things to do, and that they could not lose sight of that. The tribe needed its thane, and the Inquisition needed its Inquisitor.

So they dressed and kissed at the top of the stairs, before they walked down side by side, back into the mead hall. As the two of them stepped through the door, there was a pause in the conversations floating around there and then, after a brief moment, a wave of cheers and excitement. Ros felt her entire face grow hot and she clasped her hands over it.

“Maker’s breath…” she mumbled into her palms. Cullen chuckled next to her, his arm came around her waist.

“Don’t worry, they’ll get over themselves,” he said amused as he leaned closer so he did not have to go above a whisper with his words.

“I should have just stayed up there…” she mumbled.

“The longer we stayed up there, the worse it would have been. Look how they are after a day, imagine we’d been up there three days, imagine their reaction if they thought we’d spent three days just making love…”

His words were not helping her blush, neither were his quiet chuckles so close by her ear. After a moment, he stepped away from her and dropped into his throne. “Don’t you people have work to do?!” he thundered, with a proud smirk on his lips as he sprawled on the throne, legs far apart. There were some chuckles, but the cheering stopped as everyone slowly returned to whatever they had been doing before their thane had arrived with his… his what? His lover? His… bride?

She recalled what had gotten them into bed in the first place. Her, washing off his paint as only a spouse would do for the other. Her asking him to bed her – like he said he hoped she would. And she remembered that it was an Avvar custom that a woman ‘taken’ from her hold and her family and bedded by a man of another clan would be that man’s wife. What did this mean for them? Did it mean that they were… what, now? Husband and wife? Or rather ‘engaged’, until they had an official ceremony before the tribe? Maker, what was even involved in a wedding ceremony among the Avvar?!

She shook off the thought. It was far too early to think of such things, and with the world at stake, the threat of a power hungry ancient magister looming over them, she could not think about marriage now. Not even to Cullen.

She came to his side and leaned to kiss his cheek quickly.

“I will find Josephine and the others in the war room, I’ve neglected them, I fear. By now we should be prepared for our journey to Crestwood so I want to make sure everything is ready.”

“I’ll see you for our walk later then,” Cullen replied, turned his head to quickly press his lips to hers. She smiled into his kiss and nodded, then turned and made her way across the mead hall towards the door that led to the war room. She had a smile on her face all the way, was utterly giddy, butterflies aflutter in her chest just thinking about her lover. Truly, nothing Corypheus could throw at them could worry her anymore, she was too happy to be brought down.

She crossed the room Josephine had claimed as her office, just outside the room they had declared their ‘war room’. A large chamber that had been abandoned for years since the Avvar arrived at this castle. Inside it was a massive table made from a single, enormous tree trunk. And it was the perfect size to fit the map of southern Thedas on it. The chandelier hanging from the high ceiling of the room was made of the branches of the same tree, giving the impression that a part of it had simply been cut out in the middle. They used that room frequently now, the map on the table was covered in little markers indicating the movement of various agents of the Inquisition – including that of thane Movran the Under after they had sent him to exile on the Imperial Highway.

Upon her arrival in the war room, Cassandra and Leliana were already awaiting her, and Josephine followed just on her tracks. The antivan pulled the door close behind her and the four women gathered around the war table. Ros met Leliana’s smirk across the table.

“We have not seen much of you in the past days,” she Nightingale said.

“I… uhm… yes, I was… occupied…” Ros stammered, a blush creeping into her cheeks. Josephine chuckled a little.

“Good for you. You look happy. Maker knows, he is a remarkable man…” she admitted, with a slight swoon.

“Hmm… that he is…” Ros admitted.

Cassandra rolled her eyes dramatically and let out a disgruntled snort.

“We have more pressing concerns than pillow talk,” the Seeker said. She had taken a marker of her small pouch, indicating troupe movement of the Inquisition. She placed it at the borders of the Bannorn and Amaranthine. Crestwood.

“I have received first intel from my scouts in the area. Crestwood is one of the parts of Ferelden that suffered most under the Blight. There was much death there, and despite the Queen’s efforts, it is still among the most deprived areas of the Kingdom. Since the rifts started appearing… there have been disturbing news from Crestwood. Walking corpses, demons roaming free, terrorising the people. Also, there was a sighting of a High Dragon a few nights ago.”

“Sounds like a pleasant holiday destination…” Ros mumbled. Leliana smirked.

“That is exactly what Harding said in her report.”

“Are we certain these sources are reliable? I don’t trust Varric further than I can throw him…” Cassandra grumbled.

“They are reliable, I am sure of it. They have no reason to lie.”

“Then I suggest we send out a small party to meet with Varric’s contacts and find these Wardens,” Josephine said. Ros nodded.

“I will go personally. And I am guessing Varric will want to come along, since they are his friends. And Blackwall, perhaps, since we will be meeting Wardens – they may be more likely to trust us if one of their own is with us. And I’d like to bring Vivienne, so I won’t have to interrupt my training,” Ros suggested. Josephine nodded.

“A wise decision,” she said, then scratched something on her clipboard. She looked up to meet Ros’ gaze. “What about Cullen?”

“This is his hold, he is needed here.”

“Right… if you can convince him of that, good. The defences of this castle cannot be compromised. Corpheus may still try to attack here.”

“I know. We will try to be back as soon as possible. We leave in the morning, meet Hawke and Fenris in Crestwood, find the Warden… we should be back within a fortnight, if everything goes without complications.”

“Ah, yes, Alistair Theirin and Ariadne Hawke meeting up in a Blight infested village. What could _possibly_ go wrong?” Leliana grumbled. The corners of Cassandra’s mouth were pulling further down still.

“Hawke? _The_ Hawke? That is who we are meeting?”

“She was the ‘friend’ Varric had invited here, the one who had fought Corypheus before.”

“She was here. _In_ Skyhold? He brought the Champion of Kirk… if you’ll excuse me for a minute, Inquisitor? I have a dwarf to murder!”

And with no pause for protest, Cassandra had turned from the war table and marched out of the room.

“Oh dear…” Ros mumbled.

“You might want to… follow her. Or she might actually kill Varric,” Josephine suggested.

“Yeah… yeah I figured. Start preparing everything for our journey to Crestwood. We leave at dawn tomorrow!” Ros ordered as she headed towards the door to follow Cassandra. Josephine and Leliana nodded.

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

She paused outside the door. It still needed a bit of getting used to. Inquisitor Trevelyan. Certainly not something she had ever thought would happen. But what did her grandmother always teach her? _We are Trevelyan’s. We rise with our challenges_.


	22. Farewell, for now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (took a few liberties with the Varric & Cassandra confrontation...)

She heard the commotion from outside the tavern already. Yelling, and furniture falling over. When she walked into the Herald’s Rest, people were shoulting, had formed a circle around the two people fighting. No one dared interfere. No one dared get between the Seeker and her wrath.

Róisín pushed her way into the circle. There, Cassandra Pentaghast was yelling in Nevarran and throwing empty jugs of ale at Varric Tethras, who was flailing his arms as he avoided the launched vessels and tried not to be caught by the Seeker. Cassandra chased him around the tables and just as Ros reached the front, she caught his collar and yanked him backwards. Varric lost his footing, tumbled to the ground.

“You lying little shit! You said you had no idea where Hawke was!”

“I didn’t! Not specifically.”

“But you know how to contact her! You could have brought her here months ago! She could have prevented all of this, could have helped us de-escalate the conflict between mages and Templars and-”

Varric managed to pull himself free and evade the fist aiming for his face. Cassandra hit a table instead, flipping it over with the force of her impact.

“And what?!” Varric yelled as he put his shirt back in place. He growled at Cassandra. “What would have happened, huh? Your bloody Chantry and Templars are the reason why we’re in this mess. You people put her on that pedestal and made her your Champion and pushed all the shit decisions non of you wanted to make off on her so you had someone to blame when shit went to hell in Kirkwall. Haven’t you people demanded enough of her?” he yelled.

Silence had fallen over the tavern. Ros could see Cassandra’s fists shake with unvented rage but she stood still as a statue, teeth gritted together. Varric scoffed. “Pah. You know what I think, Seeker? If she had come to help you sooner, she’d have been at the Conclave too. If you had had your way. She’d be dead now. I don’t care about the war, I don’t care about the Inquisition. I care about Hawke. I will not let you people hurt her anymore.”

And with that, he just walked away. Róisín watched him go, then turned to Cassandra, expecting the Seeker to follow him. But she had not moved. They stood in silence for a long time, the crowd slowly dissipating until they were left alone. Ros came closer to Cassandra, walked to face her. Were those tears? Was Cassandra biting back tears?

“Cassandra...”

“What if he’s right?”

Ros blinked confused. But Cassandra continued after a moment. “I was... obsessed with finding Hawke. I thought I could make everything right, if only we had the Champion. Maybe I did put her on a pedestal. She freed Kirkwall from a qunari invasion and she calmed the uprising there when she took down Meredith. I never wanted her to come to harm, I just... I just hoped her presence could inspire. I hoped she could appease the battling factions. I thought... I thought if we had her before the Conclave, maybe it would have never gotten so bad... maybe... maybe Divine Justinia would still be alive. But... Varric is right. It is far more likely that she, too, would have perished at the Conclave. I would have failed either way, with or without the Champion.”

“Cassandra, you did not fail. Look at everything you built, against all odds.”

“I built?”

Cassandra turned to her, shook her head. She sank down on a bench, elbows on her knees, hands covering her face, rubbing vigorously. “Nothing about the Inquisition truly withstood its challenges. I failed the Inquisition. I failed Divine Justinia.”

“No, you did not. You faced opposition, you faced forces far beyond anything anyone ever endured and you brought this Inquisition where it is now. You did exactly what the Divine asked you to do. And you will continue doing it.”

Cassandra looked up, met Ros’ gaze and after a moment, she smiled.

“It is kind of you to say. Even though I know better. It is... good to know someone believes.”

“You know... you should come with us. To Crestwood, to meet Hawke.”

“I... don’t think I can. The person I build her up to be in my head... what if she is nothing like it?”

“I can guarantee she is not. But maybe that will help you? Maybe you will see that even with her, you could not have changed the way things turned out. She is human, just like you and me, and she makes mistakes, just like you and me. If she can change the fate of Kirkwall, then you can change the fate of the Chantry.”

“You truly believe so?”

“Wholeheartedly.”

“I... have to think about this. And maybe drink over it. I... Thank you, for talking me down. I know you feel like we threw you in on the deep end... but I stand by our decision. You make a great leader for this Inquisition. Not just a pretty face,” Cassandra said with a smirk. Ros chuckled.

“Thank you. Have one on me,” she said. Cassandra nodded and Ros left the Seeker to her own devices. She closed the door to the tavern behind herself, leaned her back against it and let go of a long breath. That could have gone terribly wrong. But there was one more thing to do.

She had to talk to Varric. His words had been hurtful, had certainly cut Cassandra deep, and they worried her. What if he thought about leaving? It was true that Varric was not really deeply involved in the Inquisiton – he was more just _there_ , an ally with no real connection to the group. But she considered Varri a friend. And the thought that he might leave the group frightened her. Maybe because, like her, he had stumbled into all of this as a bystander, more or less, while the others were all here by choice.

She wandered through the courtyards, trying to figure out where the storyteller might have gone, and she found him on the battlements where they had met Hawke days before. He still had the small improvised table there, brought a stool to put up his feet and was writing, with a glass of wine and some cheese on the table. He looked up when he noticed her come down the steps and leaned over

“Got you something,” he said as he pulled out a leather bound book. He handed it over and she blinked down at the cover perplexed. A grin spread across her face.

“ _Swords and Shields_...”

“I remembered you saying your copy got destroyed in the Conclave, so I had my agent send a new one.”

Ros chuckled as she flipped through the new pages and discovered that the very first page had been signed.

“You even signed it!” she said excited. “Thank you, Varric. What are you writing on now?”

“That’s a new thing. Doesn’t have a name yet.”

“What’s it about?”

“A political epic spiced with a bit of erotica. A young, idealistic noble woman whose family will be overthrown by a political putsch, leaving her disillusioned and isolated. She escapes, and is on the run when she is picked up by a passing group of barbarian warriors and steals the heart of their chief. That’s as far as I’ve gotten...”

Ros raised a brow.

“This wouldn’t happen to be inspired by a certain Circle Mage on the run and her Avvar lover, would it?”

Varric chuckled.

“Perhaps...” he said with a wink. Ros chuckled.

“I want to read that when it’s done.”

“If it ever will be done. Makes me blush just writing it,” he admitted. Ros had to laugh wholeheartedly and it made Varric grin. “Was there something you wanted, Freckles?”

“Just wanted to see you were fine. After that fight with Cassandra... you sounded like you would up and leave...”

Varric shook his head with a smile.

“Naahhhh. Things got a little tense, but if a little falling out with a friend would send me running, I’d have left Kirkwall years ago. No, I’m fine, don’t worry. And I’m still up for the mission to Crestwood.”

“That’s good to hear. Thank you, Varric. And thank you for the book.”

“Anytime, Freckles. Anytime...”

The dwarf waved as she returned to the stairs, the book pressed to her chest with a wide grin. She saw him return to his work after a sip of his wine and then she left him to his work, too. Everything seemed to be alright, she found herself relieved and with one less problem to worry about. So she could return to more pleasant things: Cullen.

* * *

 

“I don’t like it.”

She lay in his arms, his fingertips stroking over her bare shoulders as she curled up next to him and her warm breath came over his chest, cooling of the sweat of moments passed, spent in close embrace with heated kisses and low moans.

She looked up and he met her gaze.

“Cullen…” she whispered, only his name, quiet and soft, and with the smallest hint of a request in her voice. She was asking for his understanding, and she worked her angles very well. He sighed, long suffering, and wrapped his arms around her closer. He held her tight against him, the scent of her hair surrounding his face.

“You’d be gone for weeks…” he mumbled.

“If this Warden has any information on Corypheus, _anything_ that can help us defeat him, I have to know.”

“I know. But why you? You have many capable men and women at your disposal, send them…”

She chuckled and looked up. Her arms were crossed on his chest and her chin rested on them.

“Would _you_ do that?” she asked with amusement in her voice. He rolled his eyes. No, he would not. “I am the Inquisitor, Cullen. As strange as I still find that… they need me.”

“ _I_ need you,” he said. He cleared his throat awkwardly when he saw the gentle smile on her lips now, lighting up her eyes. “The tribe needs you. You may be their Inquisitor now, but you were our Marked One first.”

She rolled off him and he feared he had offended her. By the Gods, something as simple as her smile could turn him into a bumbling idiot. “I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean that you were just important because-”

“Cullen, I know. I… I just… you know, some days I curse ever having received this mark. But then… if I had not received this mark… we would have never met and… the thought… frightens me…”

He listened attentively and smile when she fell silent. He turned towards her, wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

“Don’t you understand why I dread the thought of letting you walk out of these gates in the morning?” he asked. She blinked up at him. “The last time I watched you walk out and away from me, it was to fight an Archdemon. And it ended with you being buried under an avalanche and trapped in a valley with a blizzard. I thought I lost you, Ros. I thought I’d never hold you again. And the thought of losing you kills me. Because I…”

His words failed him. By the Gods, why did this keep happening?! Why did he not find the right words to tell her what he felt for her, just how much he loved her? It was not enough to just say a simple ‘I love you’. It did no justice the feelings he had for her. It was insufficient to describe just how grateful he was that she was in his life, that she had chosen him, that she wanted to be with him. He had no words to explain that she was saving him, every day, that she had given him a chance to prove that he was worth being loved. And that letting her go was more painful and more difficult than any decision he had ever made. Including the decision to leave Skyhold in the first place.

And that she seemed to need none of his words to know just made him want to find the words more.

She scooted closer, pressed a kiss to his lips.

“I know. But you don’t have to worry. I will _always_ come back. You saw that. Not even an avalanche and a blizzard could keep me from you. _Nothing_ ever will,” she insisted with her lips hovering over his. He groaned, pulled her into a burning kiss as he rolled on top of her and claimed her lips, her body, her moans as his own. It was not the ‘ _I love you_ ’ he tried to say, but it was good enough for now.

* * *

“I still don’t like it,” he said. He watched her in the stables where she readied the horse she would take as her mount. It was one of his finest. He had insisted that she take this one, because it was not easily scared or surprised, it would carry her steady and reliable through whatever the journey might hold for them. It was the only thing she let him do, it would seem.

“I know. But it is needed,” she insisted, looking up from her work. Her gaze softened when she saw the worry in his eyes and she came closer, a hand to his cheeks. “Cullen…”

“I should come with you. I don’t like staying behind here while you are out there on your own,” he grumbled.

“I know. Believe me, I’d rather be with you. But you are needed here. And I am needed there. We both knew this might happen once I became Inquisitor.”

“I know,” he admitted with a sigh. Of course he had known this day would come. The day that she rode out with a party, to represent this Inquisition, and he would stay behind, guarding the hold, their home. He took her hands, squeezed them gently. “I just… I worry. I will be restless until you are in my arms again.”

She smiled up at him. One hand freed from his grasp, she pulled him closer until their foreheads touched gently resting against each other.

“I will be safe. And my heart will be with you at all times,” she assured him.

He cradled her face, lips coming to hers gently.

“And mine with you…” he whispered, took her hand and placed it over his heart, her fingers warm against his painted skin. Her hand lingered there, and he saw a moment’s hesitation in her features before she looked up to meet his gaze again. Her blue eyes were clear and earnest and her smile most beautiful.

“I will be back before you know it,” she said with that smile. He smiled back, although he honestly doubted that. Very day without her would feel like an eternity.

“Ros, I-”

“Inquisitor! Everything is ready for your departure!”

She glanced past him and nodded towards the soldier who had spoken, one of the handful of men she would take with her. Cullen did not heavily rely on their skills, but he did have a great deal of respect for some of the men and women she took with her. Blackwall, the Grey Warden, was a veritable wall of a man, no charging foe would get past his defences. Varric, the dwarf, was – according to Mia – the best archer under the sun, and that meant quite something. And the Enchanter they brought with them – Vivienne – was one not to be underestimated. After all, Cullen was convinced Ros was one of the most powerful mages he had ever seen and she was _still_ learning, from Vivienne. He trusted these three, he trusted they would protect her and bring her back to him safely. It was the only appeasing thought he had when looking at the prospect of her leaving the safety of the walls of his hold and of his arms.

He quietly helped her mount her horse and once she was on the back of the large steed, she leaned down towards him. Strands of her hair tickled his cheeks and her lips fluttered over his like the wings of a butterfly, before he had his hand in her neck and pulled her into a proper kiss. Their lips melted against each other and he held on to the feeling when she finally pulled away.

He led her horse out of the stables into the morning mist that was holding the castle in its firm grip. It was cold, the sun only just breaking the horizon and dipping the sky in flaming orange and pink. It was still quiet, most people still asleep but for the Inquisitor soldiers that would be leaving together with their Inquisitor.

The main gates were in shadows still, and there they met with her travelling party. Cassandra was there, mounted on her proud Ferelden Forder. Vivienne had a majestic orlesian steed as her mount, Varric a pony that was of suitable size for his stout physique. And Blackwall rode a horse brought from the Free Marches – his home it would seem. The men and women riding with them mostly were on foot, and brought two carriages with supplies for the journey, tents, weapons and armour, and a large cage with five ravens.

Josephine and the Nightingale were waiting here, too, to see their Inquisitor and Commander off. Not many words were spoken so early in the morn, Varric mostly yawned. Cullen watched as Ros approached Cassandra.

“You decided to join us?” she asked.

“I did think a lot about your words yesterday and I agree that... seeing her for myself will give me much needed closure,” the seeker confirmed with a stern nod, voice quiet. Ros nodded back. She turned to Cullen once more, a last kiss was shared between them as the portcullis was raised for her party to leave, sunlight pouring into the lower courtyard through the now open gates. And they left, their party moved out towards the morning sun, down the ancient road across the glacier. Cullen watched. When the gates were being closed he climbed up to the towers to watch from the battlements as the party brought distance between them and the castle. Once, he was certain he saw her stop and look back at him, and then the party disappeared behind a bend in the mountain pass.

By the Gods, she had changed. In the months he had known her, she had changed so much. From the frightened, confused girl she had been when they first met, to this… magnificent woman. Leading soldiers, committing sacrifice to protect the ones she cared about. Every time he saw her march into a battle he could not follow her into, he realised more and more what he had gotten himself into. He had fallen in love with a Queen, with the kind of woman who would shape history in her image, and that she still came to him was beyond his comprehension. That a woman such as her sought comfort in his arms, that she came to him after a long day’s work with her Inquisition, to let his hands soothe the tensions between her shoulders, to let him kiss away the worries, to fall asleep in his arms and find the rest she so deserved. That she allowed him to be her place of rest and peace… and every day, he just grew more in awe with her. He wondered if that was how his father had felt when Ethel the Unvanquished had chosen him all those years ago.


	23. Commander Lion's Bane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one more chapter on Friday and then I will be gone for two weeks! It's evil, I know, but I'm on vacation. And that way, Cullen and Ros will actually be apart for a while :P

He lingered a while longer, overlooking the ever growing camp of the Inquisition outside the walls, and the pass into the distance where she had disappeared with her party, and then he returned from the battlements. He climbed the steps to the upper courtyard, made his way to the mead hall only to be caught by the Nightingale and the ambassador on the way.

“Thane Lion’s Bane, might we have a brief word with you?”

He frowned.

“You are my guests, but if you wish an audience, you will meet me at my throne, like everyone else,” he growled.

“Everyone except the Inquisitor…” the Nightingale said with a quiet tease in her words.

“That’s because she’s-”

“Your bride, we know that. I am familiar with Avvar customs. We of course respect your protocol. Please,” Josephine interrupted, holding Leliana back by the arm. Cullen nodded after a moment. He had to admit, he did not like the thought of the Inquisition treating this castle like they owned it, and he would make that very clear. This was _his_ hold, and they would pay him and his tribe the respect they deserved.

He marched ahead of them, crossed the mead hall and dropped into his throne. The two women stepped up, Leliana stayed a little behind while Josephine did the talking. The diplomat bowed deeply.

“Thane Lion’s Bane. We recognise that your hospitality towards and integration of the Inquisition in your hold is conditioned by the Inquisitor’s presence. But given the nature of your relationship, it is quite likely that the Inquisition will become a fixed part of your hold. We find ourselves… at a loss. With both the Inquisitor and our Commander travelling to Crestwood, we have no one in charge of our troupes stationed here, at the castle. We feared that our defences may get sloppy if we do not keep control of the situation, and we cannot afford weaknesses. The Inquisitor needs Skyhold to be stronger than ever, now that she is away.”

“Get to the point…” Cullen growled. He had no time and no energy for diplomatic sweet talk. Josephine sighed.

“We were hoping… we were hoping you might be willing to take command of our soldiers, in Cassandra’s absence. We realise that is much to ask, but we believe that your leadership experience and your knowledge of Skyhold makes you uniquely qualified for this role.”

“My tribe is my only concern,” Cullen reminded her.

“We are aware of that, and we would not wish to take your attention away from your clan. But would you not agree that having the soldiers of the Inquisition at your command in addition to the warriors protecting your tribe, you will have an advantage over any possible threats from outside these walls?”

“Are you suggesting…?”

“To integrate Inquisition soldiers into your castle’s defences. Under your command. We have been consuming your hospitality for weeks without anything in return. We have limited resources as it stands, but we have the manpower. So if you will have them…”

He leaned back, running a hand over his stubbled chin, brows furrowed.

“I will consult with my Master of the Hunt and my augur. I will inform you of my decision tomorrow,” he said. This was an important decision to make – to let lowlanders fight side by side with them. True, they all shared the same goal, and they all shared the adoration for Róisín, no matter which deity may or may not have chosen her. He had no doubt that, under her name, they would all fight side by side. But as a permanent solution? Putting aside their entirely different culture and belief, to protect this castle and the interests of the Inquisition and the tribe seemed easy enough in theory. But he could not make that decision without consulting the leaders of his tribe – their spiritual leader, their hunters, their warriors. He could not choose for all of his people without showing them that he did value their opinion on the matter.

Josephine Montilyet bowed.

“Of course. You know where you will find me to deliver your decision.”

He nodded and the diplomat and spymaster left the dais.

Cullen stayed behind, grimly mulling over the request they had made. Taking command of the Inquisition soldiers. Men and women he did not know personally, men and women who had not connection to his people, his beliefs, and were only here because of Ros. Her taking command of the Inquisition made sense – she was, after all, still one of them, a lowlander, a born Andrastian. But he? He had nothing in common with them. And as much as he liked the idea of having well trained soldiers to bolster the numbers patrolling the battlements, he was not sure how much he could rely on their loyalty, when push came to shove. What if at some point there would be a falling out between the Inquisition and his tribe? Where would that leave them then, if they entrusted the tribes protection to outsiders? It was an enormous risk, one he was not sure he could take. He would consult, it would be a decision between all of them, not his alone.

* * *

It was late that night when he made his way through the dark courtyard, past the full tavern from where cheerful drinking songs were played, muffled across the yard. He made his way to the shamans hut and found the augur waiting for him. Candles were lit inside the hut and the persistent smell of incense blew towards him when she opened the door.

He joined them in the stuffy room surrounded by intense smells. Mia was already there, sitting on a cushion on the floor, a cup in hands and waiting for his arrival. The augur invited him to sit and then joined the two of them.

“I suppose you know what I am about to tell you?” he asked as he sat down, legs crossed, in the small circle they formed.

“The Inquisition has asked you to command their forces,” the augur confirmed. Mia raised both brows and Cullen nodded.

“They believe that if we join forces we will have a greater chance to defend the fortress in case we are attacked. And in the absence of the Seeker, they believe me to be the most suitable to command the forces,” he explained, filling Mia in on the conversation he had had with the diplomat and the Nightingale.

“Seems reasonable…” Mia confirmed. With a slow nod. Then she frowned. “But can we trust them? Putting the protection of our home and our people in the hands of lowlanders is a great risk to take…”

“That was my thought. I wanted to consult with the two of you before making a decision.”

The augur did not respond immediately. She had begun pouring tinctures into her cup made from a human skull. The metallic smell of blood, the scent of herbs and something else entirely filled the air around her. She began slewing the brew in her cup, then took a large sip of it. The moment she did, the air around them seemed to change. The stuffy warmth made way for a deep chill, settling cold mist over the ground. It made Cullen shiver.

“The spirits… the spirits speak of the wound in the sky. It is only the beginning. Something bigger is coming. Something old, a vessel of chaos and destruction. Ancient and forgotten. The Breach in the sky woke him from his slumber before his time. They tremble in fear…”

“If Corypheus is not the great vessel of chaos and destruction… then what is?” Mia asked.

“The spirits speak no name. But they tremble…”

“What do they say about the Inquisition?”

“Light in the darkness. The girl… She will bring light in the darkness, and Skyhold will be her throne. She belongs. They belong. We belong. The spirits want her to stay. They want them here. Lead them, they say… lead them… or fall.”

The Augur’s eyes opened wide as she drew in a deep breath, the fell forward and spat out the thick, bloody tincture she had previously swallowed. It landed between them with a splat, staining the ground red. She looked up, wiped blood from her lips.

“So… we make them join us. I still don’t like it, but if it’s the will of the spirits…” Mia mumbled. Cullen nodded.

“I will let them know of our decision.”

He rose to his feet, as did Mia, but the augur caught him by the wrist before he could leave.

“Something else is coming, Cullen. Something _you_ will need to face. Your old failures, returning to haunt you. His heart is full of darkness and alone, you will be torn there with him. You cannot survive it alone, only if you bare your heart to those who love you and let in their light will you rise above him.”

She let go of his hand and Cullen stood frozen in the spot, her words replaying in his mind over and over. _Your old failures, returning to haunt you_. She looked at him insistent. “Do you understand?”

“I do. Thank you,” he replied, bowed to the shaman and then turned to leave. The augur stayed behind, looking after him as he left, shaking her head.

Neither of them noticed the small figure with the large hat, cowered behind the door to the dark stairwell.

* * *

He woke up several times during the night, gasping in alarm, reaching over looking for her. Panic welled up when she was not there, when there was no sign of her body’s warmth. Everytime, it took a moment, a few heartbeats of panic, to remember that she had left, that she was on her way to Crestwood and would not be back for weeks. Each time, it took him a while to go back to sleep. For now, it was because her scent was still on the pillows that he found rest and comfort. But what if that faded, he wondered? Gods have mercy, he needed that woman back.

He woke in the morning after a difficult night, applied his paint in the quiet of the high room and then made his way to the mead hall. Mia was already waiting by the side of his throne, and when he approached, she nodded in greeting.

“Figured I’d keep you some company, so you won’t be lonely.”

Cullen smiled as he sat down in his throne and helped himself to breakfast. He leaned back against the throne.

“I appreciate the company, thank you.”

“Did you have trouble tonight?” she asked.

“A little restless. It will take a while to get used to. But I’ll be fine. I know she will return.”

Mia smiled and reached over, a hand on his arm.

“I am happy for you. I haven’t seen you this at peace in years.”

Cullen hesitated a moment, chewing some cured meat while her hand was still on his arm. Finally, he turned towards her.

“I don’t… want it to become too big news just yet… but… she washed off my skin the other night.”

Mia’s eyes widened.

“Did… did you tell her what that means?”

“I did. She did not seem put off. She said if I wanted her… that was the night we… the first night we…”

Mia grinned at him and squeezed his arm.

“So what now? Will you… you know, will you commit?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Do you _want_ to commit?”

“Gods do I! But… she knows so little about our people still, and the world is still in peril. And when it is not anymore, we don’t know where that will leave us. She’s the Inquisitor now, the Andrastians will expect things of her, I don’t know if there will be room for me in that life.”

“If there is room for you in her life while she is actively working to save the world, there will be room for you in her life when there is peace. She loves you, Cullen. And you love her. That is all you truly need.”

Cullen sat in silence for a moment, contemplating. Of course, in part she was right. He loved Róisín with all his heart and at this point, he had no doubt that she loved him back. And Gods, he wanted that to be enough. He wanted love to be all they needed to make this last. But he was a thane, and she was now a symbol of the Inquisition. Would they demand her full attention for diplomatic matters? How would they take it if she committed to an Avvar tribesman? Even if the commitment may only last a few years, as it was custom with his people, they may not even be able to get that time.

He glanced up at Mia. She and Michael had been committed for almost 8 years now, and their commitment was coming to an end. Three more years, then their last year would have passed.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“You and Michael… how do you handle the idea of being apart?” he asked. Mia turned sombre, sat down.

“We haven’t talked about it yet. But to be honest, why should anything have to change? We have Edda and Eirik, we have each other, we don’t need a commitment to know we belong together. And you and Ros are no different,” she assured him. Cullen nodded weakly.

The commitment the Avvar entered into, the closest thing to a marriage their people knew, was a temporary arrangement between two, and it was all a matter of how many years they managed to win for each other. Mia and Michael had won eleven years, a beautiful, long commitment. Cullen’s mother and father had been committed to each other for nine years. Yet the thought of his commitment to Ros – so it ever happened – ending after a number of years, seemed unbearable right now. Being without her – if it felt like it did right now – was not something he wanted for his life. Ever.

“I hope you’re right.”

Mia laughed, leaned over and squeezed a kiss on his cheek.

“Of course I am right. You two are crazy in love, if I’ve ever seen it. She makes you happy, you make her happy, that’s exactly what mother always wanted for you,” she said. There was a certain melancholy in her honey eyes when she brushed a hand over her brother’s cheek, a sentimentality that he only saw very rarely in Mia. And she must have noticed, because she shook off the thought, got up to her feet and laughed it off.

“I’ll get to work. Will you take up command of the Inquisition today?”

“I will. I’ll let the ambassador know we have agreed to accept their assistance in the hold. I want you to inspect their troops with me later.”

“I’ll be there,” she confirmed with a nod and then leapt off the dais and left the mead hall. Cullen stayed behind, still lost in thoughts about commitment, about family, about Róisín and how much he missed her already, on only the first day of her absence.

“She misses you, too.”

Cullen startled in his throne, looked up over his shoulder. There, on his throne right next to the stone sun, sat a boy in rags, a large hat atop white hair. Cullen must have stared at him in complete and utter disbelief for a few heartbeats before the boy tilted his head. “Quiet warmth in a cold night, his arms around me, strong and sure. Elderflower and Oakmoss, clay and steel, his scent familiar, makes me feel like home. Missing his voice, missing his smile, missing his lips, can’t wait to come home.”

Cullen settled, suddenly feeling relaxed. He had not met the boy before, but he knew who this had to be. Cole. The little spirit of compassion Ros had talked about. The boy who had helped her make her way back to him once before. And now he was here.

“What… is… is that what she is thinking?”

“It is what she is dreaming. I can hear her dream, her dreams are loud. The anchor makes her scream.”

Cullen flinched.

“In pain?!”

“No. No pain. Her thoughts are louder with it, they echo. And they are always of you. Just like you always think of her. One face, one voice, occupying the mind constantly. Her hands, her lips, the smell of her hair, how peaceful she looks when she sleeps. The weight of her body in your arms, skin so soft. Years of... screaming, in your mind. Years of loneliness, broken when she came. She is a beacon in the darkness, chasing away the nightmares. A fire, burning bright, but she does not burn you. She is warm, she is safe, she is... home. More than the walls here. Is this... _love_?”

The boy’s question made him smile and he nodded a little. The boy smiled back. “It is very beautiful.”

“Does she... know?” Cullen asked, his voice cracking a little. To have his own thoughts laid out like this, the words he tried to tell her but never seemed to be able to: That he had never felt as much at peace in his heart as he did with her, that she had been missing from his life for so long he was not even sure how he had managed to survive without her.

Yet the boy smiled and nodded.

“She knows.”

Cullen smiled back. Strangely, knowing that made it easier, made him relieved and oddly happy. And a moment later, he was not even sure anymore why he was so happy. He just... felt like everything would be fine. That even though she may be far away now, they would be alright. He put a hand to his heart, remembered the feeling of her hand. Her heart was with his. And his heart was with her. They would be fine. Knowing this, he could focus on work, on protecting his people - from these past failures coming to haunt hin - and on taking command over the Inquisition forces.


	24. Still Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a few liberties with the whole Still Waters quest but mehhh... This is the last chapter before my holiday, I will be gone for 2 weeks with no possibility to post new chapters. You will get the next chapter guaranteed on the 14th of September - we will meet the Warden then! Thank you all for the lovely comments so far and for following this story so eagerly, it really means a great deal to me that you are having as much fun reading this as I am having writing it!

The journey had been long and tiresome, and despite all the friends she had with her, she felt lonely. She missed Cullen, missed the warmth and safety she felt in his arms, the feeling that nothing could stop her as long as he was there. She knew she needed this, needed to find her own strength after having felt so stripped and powerless for so long. But that did not mean she did not miss him like crazy.

She had spent the evenings when they made camp and rested studying old documents she had been given by the augur. She studied them not only to occupy her mind, not only to learn the ways of the Avvar mages, but also to a large extent to improve her mastery of the Avvar language. She would sit in her tent for hours, muttering the words to herself, reading out loud, squinting over difficult words. And she practiced writing, practiced reproducing the strange runic letters of his people. All in hopes that she might be able to write him a letter from this mission, in his language. The work allowed her to not think about how much she would prefer to be with him instead of our here in the cold, wet Bannorn. 

Eventually though, their journey ended.

They reached the town late that night. Crestwood, as its name so colourfully described, lay at the crest of a mountain, dipping into a large plateau covered in lush forests and swamplands and an enormous basin. At the edges of the plateau, a dam was built, beyond it the mountain fell away into darkness, in a chasm so deep it seemed to have no bottom. Rain was pouring from the sky, thunder rolling over them and lightning casting shocks of brightness over the sky. It seemed the storm had been caught over the land of Crestwood, caught by the peak, the clouds seemed unable to pass over it and instead they unleashed their fury over the forests, the village and the lake.

Rain, it would seem, was a common occurrence in this part of Ferelden. No, actually rain was a common occurrence in all of Ferelden. The road they had come up towards the village was soaked and muddy, making it difficult for them to move forward, the landscape around them lush and green and disrupted only by harsh rocks breaking out from the ground. Moss was beginning to overgrow them, but the scenery reminded of a battleground. As if a great war had been waged here a long time ago and had shaped the landscape in a brutal conflict with itself.

The village of New Crestwood was small and unimposing. Houses made from wood that was slowly moulding under the heavy rains, few stables housing cows and pigs and chicken, a chantry the only building made from stone, towering on a hill above the rest of town. Wildflowers bloomed all around, spots of pink and yellow and blue in the swampy green that made up most of the landscape. It reminded her of the Fallow Mire.

They made camp just outside the village. Varric left their campsite before the first tent was even set up, said he would make contact with Hawke and Fenris, who were in hiding, according to their last message. Apparently a group of Warden’s had moved into the vale, looking for Hawke’s Warden friend. They did not wish to draw attention to them, so they hid.

“It worries me…” Cassandra said as she watched Varric trudge away down the path towards the lake. Soon he was out of sight and Ros turned towards the seeker.

“He’ll be fine.”

“I know. But… something does not feel right about this place. These creatures we saw earlier? They were once human, what could have turned them into these possessed, wandering corpses?” Cassandra asked grimly. Ros looked back over the lake. In the dark of the night it was nothing but an eerie blackness in the heart of Crestwood.

“I’ve seen something like this before. In the Fallow Mire. There, it was because of a rift.”

“But we have seen no rift on our way here,” Cassandra reminded her. Ros frowned. It was true, there had been no rift. She had not felt one either. But still… her gaze was again drawn to the dark lake with only the glow of the moonlight glittering on the surface.

Her gaze wandered up. There was no moon shining through the storm. And the light on the lake? It felt eerie to her because it was… green. She sighed. Maker’s breath, was it never easy?

“The rift… is in the lake,” she sighed.

“In the… Maker’s breath… how are we supposed to reach that?” Cassandra asked.

“We’ll have to drain the lake…”

“Maybe they know something about it in the village. We could see if anyone feels like talking?” Cassandra suggested. Ros nodded and grabbed her sword hilt and staff.

The two of them left behind the camp and entered the village together. The village had been built on a slope and after every few houses they had to climb a few steep stone steps to reach the next level, until they found a home with light in the windows. Cassandra knocked on a window and when the man inside jumped and looked at her bewildered, she pointed at the front door Ros was already approaching. She knocked there, and a moment later the door was reluctantly opened.

“Please, I have little food and less wealth,” he said, gaze lowered from the two women.

“You think us thieves?” Ros asked surprised.

“Are you… not with the bandits that have taken Caer Bronach?”

“We are no bandits. I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of Truth. And you speak to the Lady Róisín Trevelyan, the Inquisitor. I have no doubt you heard of us.”

“I have! I have, MyLady, forgive my rudeness!” the man replied, very nearly threw himself to the ground before them. He scurried out of the way. “Please, MyLady Inquisitor, please come in, out of that dreadful rain.”

“Thank you, my good man.” Ros said with a smile and walked past him into the warmth of the home. Cassandra followed, hand always on her sword. Ros walked through the first room they entered and peeked into the dining room where the man had just been sitting and eating an unpleasant smelling stew. She spotted pictures on the walls, as if made by a child, and a parchment letter, framed and behind glass. It was signed by King Maric Theirin of Ferelden. Ros turned towards their host.

“You are the Mayor of Crestwood?” she asked.

“I am, MyLady. And I am your humble servant.”

“If you are the Mayor, you must know. We need to get to the rift under the lake,” Cassandra said.

“R-rift? U-under the lake?”

“It is the reason why corpses walk out of the water every night. I can close the rift and make this stop, but I need to get to it first and I can’t do that with a lake in the way,” Ros explained.

“I-I… The lake is very young. It happened during the Blight, washed away Old Crestwood, washed it away whole. Hundreds dead. Those who survived settled here.”

“And you never thought to drain the lake and recover what is left of your old village?” Cassandra asked with a frown.

“Tried, yes. But the controls for the dam… there was Darkspawn there all the time. And once them beasties were gone, the bandits moved in. They hold Caer Bronach, and you can’t get to the controls any other way.”

“You mentioned these bandits before…” Ros recalled.

“Aye, MyLady. Highwaymen, the nasty kind. They took the fortress – you can see it from the Chantry yard. They took it and they hold it, and they make everyone travelling by pay their taxes.”

“This is an outrage. Does Queen Anora not know of this?!” Cassandra asked upset.

“The Queen has much work, much work. Things have gone tits up in Ferelden with the Blight, and she can’t be everywhere at once. In time, it’ll be fine. But now… now it’s not,” he said, never once looking either of them in the eyes. Ros glanced over at Cassandra and the Seeker sighed.

“Point us to this fortress, we will take care of these highwaymen,” she grumbled.

“And of the rift in the lake,” Ros added with a smile.

“You… you would do this? After all those years…”

“Apparently we are…” Cassandra grumbled, but nodded.

“I-if you follow the path just outside Crestwood down along the shore of the lake, you will see Caer Bronach after about a mile. It is not far, not far at all! Thank you, Inquisition, thank you so much, we are forever in your debt. Forever.”

He repeated that about four more times as he led Ros and Cassandra out of the door. Cassandra crossed her arms over her chest.

“Are we really going to do this? What about the Warden?”

“We can’t let this place be overrun by undead every night. The Warden will have to wait,” Ros insisted as they made their way down towards their camp, located at the very road the Mayor had spoken of. “We’ll wait for Varric and then we head to that fortress. If we infiltrate it by night we may be able to take out most of the bandits before they even know what is happening.”

“If you say so…” Cassandra mumbled. Ros turned towards her, shoulders squared, chin pushed forward.

“You made me Inquisitor, now live with my judgement.”

Cassandra smirked.

“Ah, there it is,” she said with that grin and walked past Ros into the camp. On the way, she put a hand on Ros’ shoulder. “I’ll let Blackwall and Vivienne know.”

Ros nodded reluctant, then followed the Seeker to join the rest of their entourage.

* * *

Varric returned a good two hours later into the night. His boots were covered in mud and he had a grim frown on his face. Ros met him halfway.

“What happened, are you alright?”

“Yes, fine. Met Hawke by the lake. Can’t get to her Warden contact though.”

“Why not?” Ros asked as the dwarf dropped down on a log and put down his crossbow.

“Small army of highwaymen are blocking the road up ahead, and there seems to be a flooding because of the rain so we can’t get around them either…”

“Ah… the highwaymen. We planned on taking them out. We want to drain the lake to get to the rift at the bottom, but the controls for the dam are in the fortress these raiders have occupied. We were just waiting for you to report back, but seems our problems are related – and both can be fixed by taking out those highwaymen.”

“Count me in. I’ve had enough of this place. Rain and shit. I hate it.”

“You’re… not a very outdoorsy type, are you?” Ros asked with a smirk. Varric looked up at her with a judging look.

“I am a dwarf. We live in caves. Or, in my case, in a nice stately home in Kirkwall. Hate the outdoors. Hated it when Hawke dragged me out up and down the coast and hated being dragged around by Cassandra. I like you, but I love Hawke. If she can’t make me enjoy this camping shit, you won’t make that happen either, Freckles. Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s okay.”

“So, the faster we take out these highwaymen, the faster we can get on our way back to Skyhold. Skyhold, I like. It has walls and proper furniture and real beds…” he grumbled. Ros chuckled, then drifted into a smile.

She missed Skyhold. She missed the cold mountain air, she missed the busy noises of the castle. And Maker, she missed Cullen.

It was the longest they had been apart since their first meeting, and she had not realised just how much she would miss him. She missed falling asleep next to him, missed his kisses, Maker she missed the way he made her feel. Every day they travelled away from the Frostback mountains, the stronger the feeling grew. She missed him so much, she just wanted to break up camp and return to his side.

“Inquisitor.”

Ros looked up at the sound of Cassandra’s voice (then caught herself perplexed, because it was the first time she had immediately reacted to being addressed by that title). “Vivienne and Blackwall are ready whenever you are.”

“Good. Then let’s take these highwaymen out. Tell the men to stand ready to take over the fortress,” she ordered. Cassandra nodded, and Ros turned to Varric. “Ready to take out some bandits?”

“Any day, Inquisitor. Any day,” the dwarf replied with a wicked grin. He got to his feet again, Bianca on his shoulder and he joined Ros on the road. Vivienne and Blackwall caught up with them soon after, while Cassandra would lead the men for the great assault on the fortress.

The trudge down the road seemed longer than the Mayor had described, surely because of the rain, but after a while – just as he had said – the fortress appeared in sight. Atop a cliff by the shore of the lake, the walls rose dark into the night sky, illuminated only by few lights in windows, torches perhaps.

“I bet we can find a secret way in, old fortresses like that, there has to be something like a sewage hole…” Varric suggested. Vivienne scoffed.

“My dear Varric, if you think I will crawl around in sewers you clearly do not know me very well.”

“Then what do _you_ suggest, Madame De Fer?”

“I suggest we storm the front gates. Two Knight Enchanters are no match for a few bandits.”

“Or we split up. Varric and I will infiltrate the fortress while you and Blackwall lead an advance from the front gate with some of Cassandra’s men, distracting the bandits so we can take them out from within,” Ros suggested. The four exchanged looks and eventually Vivienne nodded.

“And that is why you are the Inquisitor, my dear,” the Enchanter said. The four split up, as agreed upon. Varric led the way and Ros followed, climbing over rocks and wading through mud by the shore of the lake until they eventually found what they were looking for. A cave that had been cut by manpower and was supported by wooden planks. They climbed into the narrow hole, followed the moist stone walls, waded through knee high water and waste.

“Why did I suggest this…” Varric grumbled to himself, his crossbow held above his head to protect it. Something exploded somewhere in the distance, the sound rumbling through the walls. Varric flinched. “What was that now?”

“Vivienne. Blowing up things, no doubt,” Ros whispered back. She suddenly stopped in her tracks and pointed ahead. A ladder. Old, mouldy wood steps leading upwards into the underbelly of the fortress. Varric nodded with a grin and they began carefully climbing the moist ladder. They pulled themselves up into a dark undercroft and beyond the door they could hear the shouts of bandits, running towards the main gate of the fortress.

“Sounds like the distraction is working well,” Varric commented.

They opened the old door, peeking out into the courtyard of the fortress. And as expected their distraction was in full progress. The magic of Vivienne de Fer was soaring above the main gates of the fortress and the bandits running to fight her back did not even notice Ros and Varric in the door. The two looked around. Caer Bronach had a large courtyard and its massive walls protected the inside of the fortress. It was highly defendable, but the bandits made little use of the assets they had been given. There were a few archers positioned on the towers overlooking the fortress and Varric and Ros wordlessly agreed to take these out first.

They moved quickly. Varric was swift as a shadow, Bianca readied with a bolt, and had taken out two bandits before they even knew what was happening. They did not even get to scream. The dwarf took position on one of the towers and from the cover, he pinned down more bandits with bolts, clearing the courtyard one man at a time. Ros on the other hand was on her way up toward the ramparts, clearing out men on her way there. Green fire came in her wake, forced men to run for their lives, joining their voices to the choir of screams that came from the courtyard.

Something hit her in the back with might, knocking the wind from her lungs. Ros fell forward, rolled over her shoulder, her breath wheezing as she blinked up. Her vision was a little blurry from the impact. A warrior was towering over her, large and broad shoulders and armed with a massive hammer, ready to strike again, possibly to crush her skull. Ros evaded with a leap as the weapon crashed down and as she got up again, she flung a bolt of green fire at him, knocking him off his feet. It was a momentary distraction, the giant surprisingly agile and back on his feet before she could fully compose herself. The hammer returned for another swing and Ros had her magic shield up blocking the attack. Still, the force of the impact brought her to her knees, teeth gritted as the man kept pressing, trying to overcome the energy shield.

She let out a fierce roar, green fire bursting from her shield in an explosion that knocked the warrior back. She grabbed a steady hold of her sword hilt, summoning the spectral blade as she leapt off her feet over the backwards falling man. It knocked him to the floor and she saw the moment of shock – and possibly awe – in his face at the realisation that a girl half his size and weight had just put him so off balance that she now had the upper hand. But it did not last long, for she rammed her spectral blade into his flesh, breaking through armour and hide, skin and bone. The stench of burnt flesh filled her nose – oddly familiar now – and the man gurgled as blood filled his lungs, sputtering out his mouth and nose as he coughed and finally went limp beneath her. The blade dematerialised and Ros got back to her feet, stepping away from the kill.

She stared at the body, her chest heaving with rushed breathes, adrenalin pumping through her body. She felt... lightheaded, heart racing, stomach coiling. She remembered the Fallow Mire, remembered the Hand of Korth, the stench of blood over the foul smell of the swamp. She had to swallow the nausea of the memory, squeezed her eyes shut for amoment to shake it off, focusing on better memories instead. Cullens fingers brushing through her hair, half asleep, sunlight glittering through the windows of her chambers in Skyhold. It helped. Calmed her racing heart, slowed her breath. When she looked up again, scanning the courtyard, it looked like they were gaining the upper hand over the bandits. 

It was over abruptly. The last bandit fell and Caer Bronach was quiet. Cassandra marched her men into the fortress and within minutes, they had set up camp here. Inquisition banners soaked in the rain few minutes later.

Ros met Varric, Vivienne and Blackwall in the courtyard, where a tent was being pulled up right now, to shield the equipment from the heavy rain.

“We’ll find the dam controls and drain the lake,” she said. Cassandra joined them.

“Good. Me and the men will hold position here. This seems like a well-fortified place, the Inquisition can make use of a stronghold like this in Crestwood,” the Seeker suggested. Ros nodded.

“I agree. Perhaps if we rid the area of the undead infestation too, the Mayor will consider leaving it to us. Send a raven back to Josephine, let her establish negotiations about ownership of Caer Bronach.”

Cassandra nodded and then left to keep an eye on her soldiers, while Ros led Varric, Vivienne and Blackwall out of the fortress through a second passage way that led right onto the dam. By now, the rain had thinned and one pale, large full moon was shining through the clouds, turning the black waters of the lake silver. Wind was whipping water against the walls of the dam and rain into their faces as they made their way across.

The sensation was terrifying. There was hardly any security, only a small stone railing protecting them from the enormous drop into the bottomless schism beyond. On their other side the waters whipped up by the storm were rolling into the damn, making it tremble and thunder under their feet. Some waves were so high, they threatened to wash right over them. The stone was slippery with water and algae forming on it, dark, mossy patches on the moist surface. But eventually they did reach the controls. The building right in the middle of the dam was made from stone, an old ruin with a wooden sign flapping in the wind. It had been used as a tavern it seemed, judging from the jugs of ale etched into the mouldy wood.

The door gave way with an aching sound, timber splintering and creaking as it moved. Vivienne scrunched her nose in disapproval.

“This place surely has seen better days…” she mumbled. The ‘tavern’ they walked in seemed to have been abandoned years ago. The wood was soaked through, most of the food that had been left behind here was rotten through and through and the smell of stale pipe smoke and ale mingled with mould, moist wood and decay. Everything stood like people had just gotten up and left. Ros stopped in her tracks.

“That… makes no sense…” she whispered. Something about this place did not add up and she could not quite put a finger on it. But Varric could.

“No signs of Darkspawn,” he said grimly. Ros turned towards the dwarf, he looked up. “I’ve been to the Deep Roads. I’ve seen what these things do. They set up… weird altars made from body parts, and they desecrate everything. There is no sign here that Darkspawn ever set foot in this place. If they had, we’d find at least some bones…”

“Why would the Mayor lie…?”

Varric let go of a long, suffering sigh and shook his head.

“That’s what people do, Freckles. Lie to protect their own sorry hide. I should know, I do it too.”

Ros shook her head.

“No… there’s more to this. Let’s… take care of the dam, close the rift and then we’ll have a chat with the Mayor.”

Blackwall nodded quietly, considered it his cue to step forward. His sword and Shield put aside, he leaned his weight against the dam controls, slowly setting the aching, old gears in motion. Once the heavy lever clicked into place, they could feel the rumbling beneath the building. “Let’s go!” Ros declared and rushed out of the control room and through the tavern. She returned outside, back into the rain and approached the ledge of the dam. She watched in part awe and fear as the masses of dark water came crushing through the dam and down into the chasm below.

A mighty roar caught her attention, just in time to duck and evade an enormous shadow, soaring over the dam, over the falling waters and disappearing in the night sky.

“What was that?!” Vivienne asked upset.

“That… was a High Dragon,” Varric said grimly, looking after where the massive creature had disappeared. “Fought one of those before, near Kirkwall, with Hawke. Nasty business.”

“The Mayor mentioned no High Dragon in the area…” Ros noted.

“There’s a lot of things our good Mayor failed to mention,” Vivienne confirmed. Ros nodded quietly, then turned away from the chasm to the former lake, now draining. Even without water, it was a remarkable sight.

Large, thick chains attached to the dam supported the structure, anchoring it in the rocky ground. Where the lake had been earlier, an angry stream of water now flowed through the dam, leaving the basin muddy and the shores treacherous. In the distance she could see the shimmer of green, glowing out from underneath even the ground of the basin.

“There has to be a cave system underneath the lake or something,” she contemplated.

“You are going to make me crawl around in murky old caves, aren’t you?” Vivienne asked with a suffering sigh. Ros cast her an apologetic look, then turned back to the basin.

“There! That looks to be the ruins of Old Crestwood,” she called, pointing at structures near the shore. They might have once been houses, now just mouldy wood and old stone pillars that may have once been chimneys. The ruined village seemed quite accessible from the now bare shores of the basin by simply climbing down the dam just below Caer Bronach and making their way through the mud. And that was exactly what they did now. Leaving deep footsteps in the dark mud, surrounded by the stink of an old swamp. The water was still draining from the lake, slower now that the initial masses had left, and it continued that way for a good two hours after they had opened it, while the four of them made their way to the old town revealed to them.

Old Crestwood was clouded in dead silence, it was cold down here and gloomy, only whispers of spirits seemed to pull at the air, drawn here by the rift in the Veil. It was thin here, and because of it, the dead started walking. Bodies bloated from lying in the water for years now crawled through the muddy ground, sighing and moaning angrily, trying but failing to attack the intruders. Vivienne shook with disgust.

“Maker, let’s get this over with please!”

Ros turned her gaze towards the cave-in to the west, inaccessible still, but very clearly the source of the green shimmer of the rift.

“There has to be some way to access it. A mining shaft, perhaps…”

They separated, each wandering through the ruined town. Ros climbed through houses, past bodies. Those that had not risen with the magic of the rift sat on their homes, in tight embraces. Men and women and children, the soggy flesh slowly rotting away around their bones. The stink forced her to cover mouth and nose with the collar of her robe, but she still felt the urge to linger a moment with them, pay them respects. These people just… sat there. They had not tried to run, had not fought, they had simply… surrendered to their fate. Other had not been so peaceful. Others she found stretched out, trying to reach doors, trying to escape. Some, only very few, lay still in beds and upon closer investigation she recognised the illness in their flesh and bones, even after all these years. The Blight. But they were few in numbers.

“Over here!!” Varric called out. Ros looked up. The dwarf had sought higher ground where he could better assess the terrain they were dealing with and he was now pointing towards a small slope a little off from the old quays. Two mabari statues guarded the slope and it led towards the rocky cliffs. There, in the cliffs, Ros spotted a gaping, black crack.

Using her staff to ease the walk, she made her way there ahead of Blackwall and Vivienne, soon joined by Varric too. The four of them stared down into the abysmal darkness. Finally, the dwarf looked up with a grin and gestured into the darkness.

“Ladies first.”

Ros sighed, took her staff up as defence then she ventured ahead and into the cavern.

* * *

By the time they found the way out of the caves stretching underneath Crestwood, it was the morning. The sun was scraping at the horizon, dipping the mountain plateau in grey, cool light between heavy rainclouds. The wind had ceased and only a drizzle was still in the air. But everything here looked very different in daylight. The lush green pastures of Ferelden, interrupted only by smudges of blighted land and the black pit that had once been the lake now below them. They could make out the chimneys of New Crestwood a march away from them, the stone tower of the Chantry high over the rest.

Varric stepped out just behind her, groaning.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate being underground?”

“I thought you hated being outdoors,” Ros commented.

“I hate that, too. Give me a city any day!”

Ros chuckled at his words. Soon, Vivienne and Blackwall caught up with them as well. The exit of the cave system they had discovered had led them to a secluded little pond surrounded by rocks and a path led down from there. It led them through long grass and towards where they had set up their first camp hours earlier. They reached Crestwood soon after and with the daylight out, the people showed themselves. They were tending to small patches of garden, were taking out their sheep to the nearby grass to feed.

Ros and the others headed for the Mayor’s house, hoping to confront him about the dam controls that had very clearly not been taken over by Darkspawn. Yet when they arrived at his house, they found the door ajar.

“Mayor?” Ros called outside, carefully pushed the door open.

The house was abandoned. The framed certificate of the old King smashed in a corner and only a letter lying on a mantelpiece. Ros picked it up and read with a frown.

It was a confession. One of terrible deeds.

“What does it say?” Varric asked, trying to get a peek.

“He flooded Old Crestwood. There were… cases of the Blight, and he was afraid it might spread, despite the healers telling him it would be contained. He… went up to the dam controls himself, in the middle of the night during a heavy storm and he closed the dam. He let the flood waters destroy the town and kill everyone in it. He murdered his own people because he was afraid of the Blight.”

“Can’t really hold it against him…” Varric mumbled.

“There were children down there. Hundreds of unaffected people, and he just… let them all die.”

“What did I tell you about people doing everything to save their own hide?” Varric reminded her. Ros sighed, shook her head.

“Let’s get back to Caer Bronach and then find Hawke. I am sick of this place, I… I want to go home…”

Varric and the others nodded quietly and the four of them left the village behind, not looking back once. Ros did not want to think about it, or about the innocent people who dies for nothing in their own homes ten years ago. All she wanted to think about was going home. All she wanted was to see Skyhold appear on the horizon and to return to Cullen and leave this nightmare behind.


	25. The Grey Warden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back?  
> Me.  
> I am back. I am officially back from my hike across the Scottish Highlands, full of inspiration for our Avvar!Cullen :3 in this chapter, you also have a fix of my favourite Warden! And I am introducing a new subplot that will affect especially Bran in the future ;)

They caught up with Hawke and Fenris on the road just a small ways outside of Caer Bronach. The two of them looked weather worn, sitting on a rock together, letting the sun peeking through the cloud cover warm their skin and dry their clothes. Hawke had her eyes closed and seemed to drink it all in, the sun, the smells, the sounds. She blinked when she heard their party arrive and a smile spread on her lips.

“You know, I’m from Ferelden.”

“Everyone knows, Hawke. Everyone read my book. Even the Divine apparently read my book! I told you it would be a Bestseller!”

“Guess I owe you a sovereign for that one…” Hawke said with a weak smile as she greeted her trusty dwarf with a handshake. Then she nodded down the road. “My friend’s hiding in a cave just beyond this pass.”

“Then let’s find him,” Ros said.

The group moved out, towards the area of Crestwood previously cut off from them by floodwaters. The moorlands were green and colourful with wildflowers. Druffalo were grazing down a slope nearby and a little ways in the distance they could see a hut standing on a hill, smoke rising from the chimney. A pack of wolves was roaming, scattering when they noticed intruders in what had no doubt been their territory for weeks since the flooding. And somewhere, far away, they could hear a mighty roar.

“Is that…?”

“A High Dragon. She’s been settling here for a while, it seems. She stays away from the town because the people deliver sheep to her lair every other day, keeping her satisfied. But let me tell you. She is one bristly dragon…” Hawke explained, shivering at the thought. Her gaze wandered up past a quarry and she pointed towards a mining shaft in the rocks. “That’s where Alistair said he would be.”

They climbed the slope and passed the quarry. The entrance to the shaft was blocked with a wooden door, painted in red and a white skull, a clear warning sign. They had seen the likes of it on the walls of Caer Bronach. Ros ran her fingertips over the moist wood.

“I’ve seen these before…”

“It’s the bandit’s sign. This seems to have been a former smuggling cave. Alistair figured if the other Wardens thought it was still used, they wouldn’t suspect him hiding in there, so he left the sign up.”

“Clever, your friend,” Ros noted. Hawke smiled.

“More clever than he thinks, really.”

Ros pushed open the light door, barely an obstacle for them, and she stepped into the dark tunnel behind. Behind her, she heard Varric sigh.

“Really? Again with the tunnels?”

She glanced back over her shoulder at his silhouette and smirked. Somehow she had managed to find the _one_ dwarf in Thedas who clearly hated everything that had to do with adventuring, yet always found himself with the adventuring sort.

And when she turned back forward, she could only just stop in her tracks. The edge of a sharp, cool blade was pressed against her throat. She stayed still, not moving a muscle but to glance over at the hand holding that sword. A steady grip in black leather gloves, a muscular arm, blue and silver armour and a helmet hiding his entire face but for a slot for his eyes. His breastplate was shimmering in the torchlight, revealing a double-headed griffin crest. A Warden.

“I think I found our man,” Ros noted, raising her hands to show she was unarmed.

“Alistair! It’s alright, she’s with us! That’s the Inquisitor!” Hawke cried out when she rushed into the cave next. There was a brief pause and then, very slowly, the Warden lowered his blade. He slipped it back into the sheath at his belt, then pulled off his helmet.

Underneath it, the face of a man appeared – rough, hardened features, a scar cutting into his right brow and one across his left cheek, ginger stubble on his cheeks, jaws and chin matching his dark strawberry hair peppered with few strands of grey and sticking up in a messy way in the front. His skin was pale, his eyes brown with dark shadows under them. His nose was pronounced, lips curved slightly, ears ever so slightly pointed and there were faint wrinkles on his face – crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes, the remnants of a frown between his brows, but also the remnants of laugh lines around his mouth. He was a handsome man, a charming spark in his eyes.

“Next time, announce yourself. Maybe sing a song,” the Warden grumbled, his voice low and calm. He was guarded. The joke did not reach his voice, he was alert like a guard dog. He moved away, his movements measured, sharp like a blade, he sat down by a small campfire and slipped off his gloves to warm his hands. Ros noticed stark veins visible on the back of his hands. The Blight? She came closer carefully.

“I… thought Wardens were immune to the Darkpawn taint,” she said confused. The Warden looked up.

“That is only half true, I am afraid. And it has everything to do with what has happened to the Wardens,” he said, leaning back. He looked Ros up and down, seemed to judge her and she felt very self-conscious about it. After a moment, his gaze wandered on, passed Vivienne, Hawke and Fenris, Varric, then Blackwall. His gaze was caught by the double-headed griffin on Blackwall’s breastplate and his brows rose. “I see I am not the only Warden on your list of contacts.”

He rose to his feet and walked towards the bearded Warden, held out a hand. “Alistair,”

“Blackwall,” the other replied as he shook the offered hand. Alistair blinked.

“Blackwall… I know that name… Duncan spoke of you often,” he noted.

“Duncan…” Blackwall repeated, hesitated briefly, then nodded. “Yes. Good man.”

Alistair smiled a genuine smile and nodded back.

“He said the same about you. Tales from your adventures in the Glass Hills were his go to entertainment for new recruits when I was a boy,” he said. Blackwall laughed.

“Those were good times,” he replied. Alistair’s smile faded and he nodded slowly.

“M-hm…”

“What became of Duncan?” Blackwall asked. Alistair dropped his hand and turned away.

“He died. At Ostagar, ten years ago, with all the others. Zura and I were the only Wardens of Ferelden to make it out of there alive. Dark times…” he said, sounding grim and hopeless. As if by intuition, his hand pulled out a medallion from under his armour as he walked back to his fire. He opened the small golden locket and Ros could catch a glimpse of what was inside. A drawing of a woman. Stark, black hair, pale eyes and skin, stern features but lips curled into a hesitant smile.

Before he turned back to the group, he put the locket back where it had come from, then looked up.

“You are _the_ Alistair? One of the Wardens that ended the Fifth Blight,” Ros noted. Alistair shook his head.

“I should really change my name… I can take no credit for that. That was _all_ Zura. She struck down the Archdemon, she ended it,” he said. A smile came to his lips when he shook his head. “My indestructible Goddess…”

Ros smiled. Maker, he loved that woman, it was clear as day on his face. “But you’re not here to hear me blabber about our glory days. That was a long time ago, right? ‘ _What have you done for us lately Alistair?_ ’ Nothing, apparently. You’re here because a crazy, ancient Darkspawn magister is terrorising Thedas and the Wardens aren’t doing shit about it.”

“You know what happened?”

“I have my theories. So, what you need to know is that Wardens are not technically immune to the taint. We get sick, just like anyone else. The difference is, we do it by choice. To become a Warden, you undergo a blood ritual – you drink Darkspawn blood, mixed with a drop of blood from an Archdemon and a drop of lyrium. It gives us… a number of special abilities. It makes us stronger, faster, more robust than ordinary humans, elves, or dwarves, and it lets us… how to explain… we can ‘hear’ the Darkspawn. See, Darkspawn are connected through a collective consciousness, they communicate that way, and it is how the Archdemon commands them, by taking control of that network. Grey Wardens, using the Darkspawn blood in our veins, are linked to that network. In a sense… we _are_ Darkspawn ourselves. We can feel them, they can feel us, and it makes us uniquely capable of killing them. The taint in our blood spreads slowly, but we have rarely more than thirty years left from the time of our Joining, until it is too strong. When that happens, we venture alone into the Deep Roads to die and take as many of those bastards with us that we can. The time when our taint is too strong to fight it back any longer, we start hearing… well, I can’t really describe it. It’s a song, a pretty damn ugly song that gets stuck in your head and it haunts your dreams and after a while you hear it when you’re awake too and it gets louder until it’s the only thing you can hear. We have a name for it. The Calling. It’s the sign that a Warden’s life comes to an end. That is what all Wardens have been hearing. All at once, new Wardens and senior Wardens alike, all of us being called. And it is terrifying,” Alistair explained. Ros looked back at Blackwall, worry on her face.

“Why didn’t you tell us this?” she asked concerned. He shook his head slowly.

“I… didn’t think it was relevant…” he admitted, glancing away. Alistair sighed.

“So… are you saying all Wardens think they’re… dying?” Hawke asked, before he could speak. He nodded.

“And they are panicking. Warden Commander Clarel, of Orlais, had drawn up a plan to form an army of Wardens and venture into the Deep Roads, to find the remaining Archdemons and kill them all before we die.”

“So that there will be no more Blights…” Ros mumbled with a nod.

“Exactly. It is a noble thought, except… she turned to Corypheus to achieve that goal. And that is where I realised something was very wrong. Hawke, you told me that when you first met this creature, it was controlling Wardens. I believe… that this ‘Calling’ we’re hearing is not real. I believe Corypheus is causing this, driving the Warden’s to desperate measures so he could get them to help him with his own agenda. I got out, and they started hunting me. They think I am a traitor,” he scoffed, rolled his eyes. “Somehow, _I_ am the traitor, for _refusing_ to ally myself with a crazy Darkspawn magister!”

“What about the Hero of Ferelden? Is she with them, too?” Ros asked alarmed. But Alistair shook his head.

“No. She left long before that happened. She is travelling north, searching for a cure to the Calling. It is what we have been doing for the past ten years – looking for a way to get more time together. A way to spare all Wardens their fate. Her taint is progressing much faster than mine, because she was the one to strike the killing blow to the Archdemon. She does not have much longer... We had finally discovered a promising lead, after _years_ of dead ends and fruitless goose chases. But just as we were about to head north together, this Calling happened. We agreed the clue was too important to let it run cold, so she left, while I stayed behind to find out why we all received the Calling so abruptly. She took a group of Wardens with her, ones she trusts without reservation – Nathaniel, Velanna, Oghren, and Sigrun – and they are getting closer. But I have not been able to get in touch with them for months now, since I have been on the run. I try to get messages to her, but I never know if she received them or answered them, because I cannot stay in one place long enough to get a response…”

“What do you know of this plan Clarel has? What does it involve and how does Corypheus figure into it?” Ros asked.

“It has all been kept very hush-hush, but I managed to learn that they are planning something big in the Western Approach. There is an old Warden outpost there and apparently the veil is thin there – I am always a bit foggy on what these things mean, Zura is better at all the arcane things, but as far as I understand it, it’s easy for spirits and demons to cross over into our world if the veil is thin.”

Ros glances back at her companions, finding them frowning.

“The Western Approaches are a long way from here.” Vivienne noted.

“Six weeks, to be precise,” Alistair confirmed.

“Then we have no time to waste. We return to Skyhold and from there make our way to the Western Approach,” Ros ordered. Hawke turned towards Alistair.

“Join us,” she said. The Warden blinked.

“Really?”

“You are in danger here, the Wardens looking for you did not seem to be kidding around. Skyhold is safe, and you might be able to learn of Zura’s whereabouts there.”

Alistair hesitated. It took him a moment, but he finally nodded. Because the thought of finally getting word from his love was just what he needed.

“If… The Inquisitor is alright with that?”

Ros nodded with a smile.

“Of course. We can send a raven to her last location and by the time we’re back in Skyhold, we might have a reply,” Ros suggested. Alistair sighed and smiled a relieved smile.

“That would be… Thank you… I will gather what little belongings I have here and will meet you at Caer Bronach,” he said with a nod. Ros nodded back. They saw Alistair scurry about the cave for a while as they left to return to their fortress. Stepping back into the sunlight, Ros drew in a deep breath. They were finally returning home! Thank the Maker.

As they made their way down the path again, the mighty High Dragon dashed across the sky, roaring furiously. Purple scales reflected the sunlight beautifully, shimmering like the feathers of a bird. And she was almost inclined to just leave the creature be. And they would have gotten away with it, if it were not for Cassandra.

* * *

The three of them were gathered around the war table. Leliana, the Nightingale, had descended from her tower and summoned them there early in the morning and when they had all met here, she took a marker from her pouch and pinned it on the map. Cullen leaned forward to see better. He stood so the map was upside down to him, opposite the Nightingale and the Ambassador. The marker Leliana had placed – shaped like a raven holding a dagger – was pinned in a flat, hostile looking area. He managed to decipher the name as ‘Western Approach’ with the intricate, artsy writing that was a little too impractical for his taste. Why did maps need to be pretty? They were maps, what purpose did they serve other than help people find their bearings?

“We received word from Crestwood this morning,” Leliana began. Cullen looked up.

“Word from Róisín?” he inquired, before asking about anything else. Leliana nodded.

“They are all fine. The Warden has been recovered and they are now on their way back here. They will be with us in a week, perhaps less.”

He felt a weight fall from his chest. Thank the Gods! She was coming home. She was unharmed and she was returning to him.

The past weeks had been sheer torture. Lying in her bed – the bed they had shared so excessively before she had embarked on her search for the Grey Warden – he had found little sleep. He had lain in the quiet, worrying about her, missing her warm body next to his, missing the sound of her calm breaths as she slept, missing the feeling of having her safe in his arms. He missed her smile, missed her voice, missed the reassuring way she told him it would all be fine. He missed her. And to hear that she was coming back to him was the best news he had received in days.

When he looked up againhe saw Leliana’s smirk. She had taken out an envelope. “She sent a letter for you specifically. I did not open it.”

She handed him the letter across the table. It was sealed with an Inquisition seal and addressed to him, his name written on the front in boxy, clumsy writing of their language. She had put effort into this, even though her studies of the Avvar language was not yet far enough to write more than children’s language in it. That she had thought to write in his language was so overwhelmingly kind, he had to fight back the brightest smile creeping into his lips and cheeks because he knew the two women in the war room with him would never let him hear the end of it.

He shoved the letter into his belt.

“I will read it later. In private. What about this… Western Approach?” he inquired.

“The Warden contact informed them that Corypheus and the Grey Wardens he corrupted are planning something big in the Approach. We will have to investigate. The Inquisitor has asked that we prepare our men for her return here so that we may set out to the Western Approach without delay.”

His stomach sank.

“She will leave? Again?”

Leliana looked up.

“It’s not ideal. But if there is a chance we can stop Corypheus’ plans before he can realise them, we must take it. She knows that,” Leliana said grimly.

“Surely the separation is as hard for her as it is for you. Commander. She will want to see this through as soon as possible so she will not have to leave again.”

“Surely…” Cullen mumbled, holding on to the thick table plate. But she would come back here first, right? Surely she would stay a night, maybe two. They could spend time together. Gods, he would not let her out of his sight when she was here. He would have her next to him at all times, ideally they would not leave her rooms at all in that time. He would bring her food and drink to her bed and there would be no need for her to put on inconvenient clothes and he would spend every waking minute making her moan his name and fill her and make her come undone beneath him so she would fall asleep satisfied and exhausted in his arms.

Oh the days until her return now seemed longer than ever.

“When the Inquisitor returns she will want her troupes in best shape. She has requested a contingent of archers and warriors, mostly of orlesian birth, as they will know the terrain they will have to overcome between here and the Approach better than anyone else.”

“I will draw up a roster of the finest men and women under my command. Only the best for her…” Cullen confirmed. Leliana smiled weakly. He wondered if her smile ever reached her eyes.

“We expected nothing less, Commander,” the Nightingale confirmed. She then straightened her back and turned towards Josephine Montilyet. “Now, are there any other matters that require our attention?”

“Numerous,” Josephine confirmed and took to her clipboard, beginning to present to them numerous letters of people with issues they needed the Inquisition to fix. And so the meeting of the day stretched on, with the bright, silver lifeline of knowing that soon, his Róisín would be returning to his arms.

The gathering ended after about two hours and they each returned to their duties. Josephine sat down in her makeshift office just outside the war room. She had cleaned the place out nicely, had brought in a desk and bookshelves and some comfortable looking orlesian furnishing to sit on and have tea with visitors. Clearly, she expected visitors. So far none had come, but Josephine Montilyet was nothing if not prepared.

Upon entering the mead hall, the Nightingale nodded briefly to him and then went on her way, returning to her tower no doubt. He rarely saw her out of it, only for their meetings in the war room did she show herself. She seemed to eat and sleep in that tower, surrounded by her birds and her small Andrastian shrine.

Cullen himself turned towards his throne, made his way there and sat among his people. He saw the augur waiting for him as he passed the people and once he sat in his throne, the elderly shaman came closer.

“My thane, the spirits have spoken to us and I believe you should know,” she said. Cullen leaned forward and nodded.

“Speak,” he ordered.

“They spoke to all of us, their voices loud all around. The Dragon’s Bane comes, they say.”

“Dragon’s Bane?” Cullen repeated. The augur nodded grimly.

“We know not what they speak of, but… it could be a rival thane. And if the spirits tremble at the sound of their name, they must be powerful and dangerous indeed. The name, it tells of glorious victory and of threat, tells of a warrior without mercy, a great force that will make all it encounters cower in fear, even the mighty beasts of the sky.”

“And they say the Dragon’s Bane is coming? Here?” he inquired.

“Yes, my thane.”

“Hm…” he leaned over, a hand brushing his chin. “It could mean Corypheus. He commands a dragon, perhaps it is the spirit’s name for him. I will increase the guards and the training of new recruits. We will be prepared for whatever may be on its way to our hold.”

“Aye. My shamans and I will listen for words of the spirits, and if we hear news, I will let you know.”

“Thank you for the warning, augur,” he said with a bow of his head. The augur nodded and then made her way out, returning to the other shamans. Cullen leaned back in his throne, a frown between his brows. The Dragon’s Bane…

He called Michael to the throne then, and let a scout run to find his Master of the Hunt. If they were to face such an enemy, they had to be prepared. Avvar and Inquisition alike.        


	26. The Arrival

It seemed to be a day like any other.

Cullen woke early, before the sun had even risen above the mountain peaks, and climbed out of bed. The water in the bath was cold, but it was good enough for him so splash his face and chase away the sleep from his eyes.

When he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, there were shadows under his eyes. He was tired. Restless. All because he missed the woman he loved. A feeling he had not known before, never thought he would ever experience, yet here he was: Hopelessly in love, and useless without her by his side.

He opened the heavy curtains, let in the cool morning air while he applied his paint, then dressed in his trousers, fur skirt, boots and his lion mane draped over his shoulders. He rubbed over his cheeks, his blond beard growing thicker with each passing day, his hair growing longer, too. It had been a while since he had needed to braid it but after months of not cutting it, it was now long enough to justify it. Skilled fingers followed familiar movements, muscle memory not betraying him as he twisted the curls into one braid falling over his right shoulder. He picked up sword and shield and was just on his way down the stairs when the door flew open and Mia came storming in. She was out of breath, blonde curls dishevelled, her eyes wide with alarm.

“What’s wrong?!” he asked, immediately alarmed.

“An army approaches. Avvar, by the looks of it,” Mia declared out of breath.

“Hostile?” Cullen asked grimly as he fell into pace next to her on their way down.

“Hard to tell, they are still far away. The Hunters are on the battlements and the Inquisition is in position on the outer walls. We are well fortified, but without knowing what to expect…”

He nodded.

“I know.”

They crossed the mead hall, where many children had gathered. Just in passing, Cullen saw his niece and nephew. Brave little Edda with a wooden sword in hands, ready to attack anyone who tried to harm her and her brother. Many other children were scared, cowering together with their older siblings, girls and boys too young still to be considered adults, too young to be expected to pick up weapons themselves and fight and die for their people.

He stopped at the gate of the mead hall, turned towards them all. He saw the fear in their eyes as they looked to him and it made him walk back.

“Don’t be afraid! You are Avvar! You are the people of the mountain, and our Father and Lady watch over us all. This is our hold, and no one will take it from us. Never again!” he declared, voice thundering through the hall. He saw the light return to the eyes of the young adults, saw them raise their heads square their shoulders. As he passed, he put a hand on the shoulder of a boy, barely 13 years old, with ginger hair and spots in his face. “All of you, grab what you can as weapon and stay in here. Do not come out unless I order you to.”

“Y-yes, my thane!” the boy stammered.

“What is your name, son?”

“Bjorn, my thane. Bjorn Ar-Mara.”

“Bjorn. A good name. Look out for them, Bjorn.”

“I-I will! My thane!”

With these words, Cullen returned to Mia by the door and they left the mead hall together. On their way to the upper courtyard they were joined by Rosalie, accompanying and supporting the elderly augur as they climbed the steps to the battlements. Cullen glanced along the walls. Every man and woman capable of carrying a weapon had taken up arms and assumed a position atop the ramparts. The hunters were in the highest points, arrows ready for whatever the horizon may bring. He looked down between the outer and inner wall, saw the Inquisition soldiers had taken up a strict formation, infantry ready with arms and shields, and cavalry mounted on their fine horses. Their mages and their archers were on the walls, gazing out towards the approaching banners.

He could see what they saw. Coming down over the pass, crossing the glacier. Many men, carrying heavy banners of bone and cloth, like only one hold did. He frowned.

“Redhold…” he whispered.

“Shiverbeard…” Mia added.

Cullen turned on his heel and Mia cried out. “Where are you going!”

“Shiverbeard was one of mother’s most trusted, oldest friends. I will hear what he has to say, before I raise my blade against his men,” he said as he climbed down the stairs again. He left behind the courtyards and stepped through the portcullis, passed the towers and over the drawbridge. And there he stood and waited as the tribe approached. Wild men and women, with long dark hair, painted red and wearing white furs, carrying their banners made from bear bones and hide.

The man leading them soon was within a few feet of Cullen. A thick, black beard peppered with greying hair, leathered skin covered in red paint, pale eyes and his head shaved completely. He was a giant, towering even over Cullen who considered himself quite a tall man. Shiverbeard’s torso was broad, the paint on it reminiscent of a bears head. The fur skirt around his waist was held in place with a leather belt, the buckle shaped as a bear, too. His feet stuck in heavy boots and his legs were bare. Strapped on his back was a mighty war axe adorned with bones and feathers.

The man stopped in his tracks and raised a fist, commanding his marching army to halt as well. He then eyed Cullen up and down, bushy salt and pepper brows in a low frown. And then, after a long, long look, that frown turned upside down. The man grinned, baring his strong teeth and opened his arms wide.

“Cullen!!” he declared, his voice roaring over the tense silence and dissolving that tension in a heartbeat. Cullen felt his shoulders relax as the man came towards him and pulled him into a literal bear hug. He found himself laughing and closing his arms around the other man. After a moment, Shiverbeard pulled back, hands on Cullen’s shoulders. “Last time I saw you, you were just a wee lad.”

“Last time you saw me, mother was still alive,” Cullen said. He glanced past the thane. “And there was no need for armies.”

“A matter of security. We heard someone had taken up residence in Skyhold and we had to make sure. Our augur has been hearing the Gods, they are in uproar. They tell everyone of the arrival of the Dragon’s Bane.”

“We have heard of this Dragon’s Bane, too. Do you know anything else about them, other than the name?”

“We don’t. But when we heard a thane took up the throne of the Unvanquished in Skyhold, we feared it might be a usurper. We feared this ‘Dragon’s Bane’ may be Samson. So I brought my men up here to see for ourselves.”

Cullen had gone stiff at the mention of the name. Samson. After all those years, after running from the past so long, there it was again, that name, that shadow. He looked up at the other man.

“Shiverbeard… you took all your men here to defend Skyhold?”

“Samson has many supporters, Cullen. Many who believe his claim to this hold to be legitimate. He has poisoned many minds against you, after the Unvanquished perished so long ago. Your absence… did not particularly help your cause…”

Cullen clenched his fists and stared past the man, towards the horizon, Shiverbeard put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I never believed the accusations. You would never do this.”

Cullen shrugged the hand off and turned away.

“But I did. It’s my fault she’s gone. The misfortune that befell my people… it’s all my fault. Why they still follow me, why they still believe in me, I have no explanation. After what I have done… Samson was right to chase me away.”

“You know that’s not true. You were but a boy! Everyone makes mistakes. You are not responsible for what happened. And they follow you because your mother trusted you, she believed in you, she believed that you would one day be a great thane. And look at you now! Gifted by the Gods! She was right all along!” Shiverbeard declared. Cullen stood with his back to him, facing the walls of Skyhold, the towers reaching high into the sky. The throne of the world. He heard steps, then had a hand on his shoulder again. “Come, it will all be alright, in time. Now, show me that Marked One everyone is talking about!”

Cullen smiled weakly.

“She is not here, I am afraid. She went to follow a lead on what happened at the Temple where the earth and sky were wounded. But she should return any day, I hope,” Cullen explained. He noticed Shiverbeards disappointed face and it made him laugh, a welcome distraction from the looming threat of the Dragon’s Bane. “But come! The mead hall is warm and we have room for guests! Feast with us and tell me what has become of your people in the last ten years!”

“Gladly! How have your siblings fared?”

“Well, considering we had no home. Bran has taken to look after our horses. Mia is my Master of the Hunt – she is married now, two children. Edda and Eirik, you will like them both. And Rosalie is training to be a shaman.”

“What of you? No woman who has staked her claim on a fine thane like you?”

Cullen laughed, felt warmth rise in his cheeks at the thought. Oh, Róisín had staked her claim, whether she realised it or not, he was hers, absolutely. If she wanted him.

“There is… one. It is by no means official yet, but I hope one day, when all these threats to the world are vanquished… she will honour me by becoming my wife.”

“Ah, what a shame, my Alyosha had her hopes up. But you never know. Perhaps you are terrible at untying and that bond of yours will not last long,” Shiverbeard teased with a thundering laugh as they made their way through the gates and into the lower courtyard, while the warriors he had brought with him set up their camp outside the walls, on the old glacier.

Cullen laughed weakly and shook his head. Of course, there was that. The wedding traditions of his people that limited the time he and Róisín could ever be married. He was not sure how good he would be at untying the knots, to be honest. Michael, upon his and Mia’s wedding, had been remarkably fast, had managed to untie 16 knots in the time it took for Mia to finish her song. He was certain Mia had sung deliberately slow, but there was nothing wrong with that. And 16 years, that was a good time to be together. Watching their children grow up together, watch each other grow older, build their love and friendship to last even after their marriage would end. That was a good thing. He could only hope to be so lucky when his time came.

They climbed up to the mead hall and were joined by Mia, Branson and Rosalie, who greeted Shiverbeard as relieved as Cullen felt to learn their old friend had not turned against them. Perhaps things were not as dire after all. He watched as his siblings took their guest into the mead hall, heard their laughter and then turned back towards the pass. Still, the Dragon’s Bane was on the way here and Samson was still out there. They were by no means safe, and this hold nowhere near as secure as he had hoped it would be. Not by a long shot.

 

Days passed with their guests staying in and around Skyhold. Trade prospered thanks to the visitors, helping Skyhold stock up on food, raw materials for weapons, and providing news from beyond the mountains. Movran the Under was said to be well on his way to his destination, the southernmost border of Tevinter, where the Imperial Highway crossed into Nevarra’s Silent Plains. Rumour of the Dragon’s Bane had swept across any and all Avvar tribes in Ferelden, as all the Gods and spirits agreed, but they were never more than rumours. No one had seen this ominous Dragon’s Bane or had engaged in battle with them yet, so the mystery persisted.

Until that day, in the afternoon.

Cullen was just returning from a meeting with Josephine and Leliana in the war room when he found someone sat atop his throne. Not in the cushions, but on the backrest. A small figure, a boy just, dressed in strange clothes, wearing his shirt the wrong way around it seemed and his face almost entirely hidden by the large flap of a hat. Cullen marched closer and had his sword drawn as he approached the boy on the throne.

“What is the meaning of this?!” he asked, his voice thundering. The boy jumped a little and looked up.

“You see me? You were not supposed to see me. You never see me…”

“What… are… you are that spirit… I remember you…”

“I am called Cole. I am Compassion. She asked me to watch over you while she is gone, and I did. But then I make you forget, and just the feeling remains…”

“C-Cole…?” Cullen repeated. He remembered that name. He remembered speaking to that boy before. The spirit boy, the one who had been spooking around Skyhold since they arrived here, hiding knives and daggers, throwing turnips in the fire and misplacing chicken in the strangest of places. Many people had reported of his strange deeds, but it was the first time Cullen actually saw him. “What do you want, Cole?”

“I wanted to whisper to you when you sat down. She’s back.”

It took Cullen a heartbeat to understand what the boy had said. _She is back_. She. Róisín. He took a step backwards.

“I… I have to…”

“Yes, you have to go welcome her now.”

Cullen turned away, wasted no more thought on the boy. He ran. Fast as his legs could carry, felt a grin break free on his face. She is back. He ran past a confused Shiverbeard, pushed open the gates of the mead hall and stepped out into the sunlight. He ran across the upper courtyard, climbed the ramparts and gazed out over the glacier. His eyes scanned the horizon, unable to spot anyone or anything on the pass. His heart sank. Had he fallen for spirit trickery? Had he gotten excited over noth-

“A party approaches!!” a scout yelled from the top of a tower. Cullen looked up, saw the young man point excitedly and then sound a horn in alarm. Cullen’s gaze wandered towards the horizon again, squinting against the pale light reflecting of the snow.

There! Shadows moving over the mountain crest. A party, maybe thirty, forty men escorting what could only be a war machine, a trebuchet maybe, an enormous construction covered under large sheets. Horses were in the front, riders crossing over the pass.

“Open the gates!!!” he called out as he ran towards the towers where the drawbridge was controlled.

“B-but, my thane?!”

“Cullen, they could be enem-” Mia warned.

“It’s them. It’s Róisín and her party.”

“How do you…?”

How _did_ he know? He was not sure anymore. He was not sure anymore why he had run all this way from the mead hall up here in the first place. Something had… planted the thought in his mind, the certainty that the people approaching had to be his Ros and her entourage. Why, he did not even know. But every fibre of his being was absolutely certain.

He shook his head.

“I just… I _know_! Trust me!”

Mia stared at him in confusion for a moment, before she sighed and signalled the guards at the controls to do as they were told. The bridge and gate opened and Cullen watched from the tower as the company drew nearer. When they were close enough to make out the sound of hooves, he left the tower and climbed from the ramparts. And by the time he reached the lower courtyard and the arch of the gate, they were crossing into the castle.

He moved past men and women dismounting from their horses. They all looked worn down from the weather and the long journey, tired and clearly relieved to be here. To be home. And then he spotted her. His heart nearly stopped in his chest. By the Gods, he had nearly forgotten just how magnificent she was.

Róisín was wrapped in her coat for the mountain temperatures, her hair in a dishevelled, dark mess, and over her shoulder she wore a new piece of armour, shaped like a dragon claw with purple scales. Her boots and trousers were dirty, and she held herself differently. In part surely from the long ride on horseback, but there was a hardness to the way she held her shoulders, her frame more solid than it had been before she left. When she climbed off her horse he could practically see the muscles of her thighs through the fabric of her trousers and her movements were measured and controlled. Her skin seemed more tanned than before she had left, fresh, orange freckles on her nose and cheeks.

“Good work everyone! Rest. And have drinks on me at the Herald’s Rest.”

The men and women under her command cheered as she had spoken and then led their horses to their stables. Cassandra remained at her side a little longer. The Seeker had let down her usually uniform appearance. The braid she wore wrapped around her head usually was down, a thin ratstail falling over one shoulder, making her look almost Avvar. Her armour seemed blunter than before, marks of recent battle on them. Some buckles had been replaced with carved bones, her shoulder guard looked spikier than usual, and the helmet she had tucked under one arm looked… quite suspiciously like a drakes skull. The two women exchanged quick words, nodded to each other. And then, finally, Róisín’s gaze fell on him. He saw her blue eyes light up and a smile spread across her face.

“Cullen.”

He barely even heard her say his name so much as saw her lips move, and the next thing he knew he was running to close the distance between them. She did the same, and flung herself at him. Her arms closed around his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist and her lips crashed into his. Her kiss was hot, and hungry, stealing his breath with the fire it kindled in him, teeth pulling at his lip to draw him closer, if that was at all possible. Her hands were digging in his curls, fingers scraping over his scalp, and his arms had come around her, hands cupping her behind to hold her up against him. Gods he had missed her, more than he had even realised right until this very moment. And she had missed him to. Her kiss told as much, the way she clung to him, she did not even need to tell him. But it was still lovely to hear, her voice rasp and breathless between kisses, telling him how she had almost gone insane because she had missed him so much.

He had missed the way her lips tasted, the way they felt against his, and to have that feeling back only made him more determined. He would not let her go on her own again. If she wanted to travel to the Western Approach to find this secret Warden base, she would have to accept that he would go with her. Be by her side and have her in his arms, come what may. He would not be without her again.

Finally, she pulled away, but stayed close enough for her forehead to lean against his.

“Maker’s breath, I missed you so…” she whispered again, hot breath in ragged pants across his lips. And all he wanted was for her to say his name with that voice, so breathless, so hot.

“I will not let you out of my sight again,” he promised, closed his arms firmly around her and pressed his lips to her skin, before he buried his face in the warm crook of her neck. She returned the embrace and they stayed like that for several, long moments before someone decidedly cleared their throat. He looked up to find Cassandra Pentaghast standing by the large carriage they had brought. He was hit by a wave of an unpleasant smell, rotten eggs, cold smoke, bitter iron.

Róisín looked up as well and he felt her legs loosen around him. He helped return her feet to solid ground and when he looked back at her, he found her grinning.

“You have got to see this!” she declared. She squeezed a kiss onto his cheek, making him acutely aware of his out of control beard. Then she turned away and walked to the large carriage. Whatever was under those sheets did not seem shaped like a trebuchet, he noticed. It actually looked more like a –

Róisín dramatically pulled back the sheet and revealed what was underneath. Cullen’s eyes widened. Those were the bones of an enormous creature, picked almost completely clean. A horned head, large wings, a magnificent beast, larger than anything he had ever encountered.

“Tadaaaa!” Róisín declared excitedly.

“What…?”

“It is the High Dragon we killed in Crestwood,” Cassandra explained. Cullen froze. A dragon? A magnificent beast brought down and now presented as a trophy before him? His gaze wandered to Róisín, who chuckled and blushed.

“Listen to her downplay it. She did the slaying here, the rest of us were just spectators,” she corrected. But Cassandra shook her head.

“Credit where it is due, Inquisitor. If it were not for your fast thinking we would have all succumbed to her wrath. You let us outsmart her,” she said. Then she turned to Cullen. “You would have been proud, the sword lessons have clearly paid off.”

The Seeker pointed to the missing left front leg of the creature, where bones had been ripped apart and there was the mark of a burning sword, singed into the rib bones of the dragon. Róisín’s magical blade. And the massive claw she wore as part of her armour now was no doubt part of the limb she had severed with that very blade.

“Yes but you struck the killing blow, Cass. You should have seen it, Cullen. The Dragon had put us all down, but Cassandra was still standing. Sword raised, a roar in her voice, she crashed her shield into the beasts side with all her weight, distracting the creature from us. It snapped at her and she was just… gone. Next thing I know, the blade pierces the Dragon’s jaws together. It was writhing and struggling and Cassandra pulled back her sword and dragged the blade down the beasts spine, splitting it wide open. Look at that!” Róisín declared excitedly, highlighting all the magnificent wounds the Seeker blade had inflicted.

“Boss! You went Dragon hunting and didn’t bring me?!” a voice thundered from across the courtyard. The Iron Bull came storming closer and began inspecting the beautiful bones.

Cullen’s gaze wandered from the dragon to Cassandra and back. And it finally dawned on him.

“Dragon’s Bane…” he whispered. That was most unexpected a development, but also a most welcome one. A smile spread across his lips, then a quiet laugh.

“What?” Róisín asked confused. He turned to her, stroked over her cheeks, then kissed her.

“For days now, shamans across all the Avvar tribes spoke of a Dragon’s Bane, a mighty thane who vanquished a terrible beast and would come to lay claim on the throne of the world. We were preparing for battle. But it’s her. _Cassandra_ is the Dragon’s Bane. The tribes have given you a name, that is a great honour among our people.”

“But… I’m no one of your people. Are you sure it’s me the spirits talked about?” Cassandra asked confused. He nodded with a smile.

“You may not be Avvar, but you are a leader, you have an impact on the spirits that surround you. Dragons are grand beasts, slaying one changes the balance of the world. The Gods knows you, and the Avvar will know you as Dragon’s Bane.” he said sternly. “And you stand on equal foot with the Marked One, who is by all accounts a thane of our people – she sat on my throne, and she had me on her knees before her…” he said, his gaze meeting Róisín. She chuckled.

“Yes, I remember that one, that was fun…” she mumbled. Cassandra let go of a disgruntled noise and rolled her eyes.

“I’ll… see myself out of this conversation. Inquisitor, if we could have a meeting at the war table soon, to discuss our next move, I would appreciate it. Preferably _before_ you two disappear in the bedroom for the next two days?”

“I’ll try, Cassandra. No promises,” Róisín replied, meeting his gaze and her eyes just as dark and hungry as his had to be. Gods have mercy, he needed her. There had been so much he wanted to do before – introduce her to Shiverbeard, let everyone know that the Dragon’s Bane was no threat but a friend. But desire stirred up with urgency in his chest and his loins. The moment Cassandra had left their side, he wrapped his arms around Róisín, pressed her flush against him and seared their lips together in another kiss. It made her sigh, made her melt into his arms.

“Gods, I don’t think I’ll be able to wait until after you met with the advisors,” he grunted.

“Neither will I,” she hissed back when he squeezed her behind and pressed her against his hip. His lips curled up into a smirk as he leaned closer, pulling her lower lip between his teeth.

“We should do something about that.”


	27. Welcome Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has smutty bits! So will the next one! They have been apart a long time, they have A LOT of catching up to do ;)

They did something, and they did it fast.

Stumbled into one of the vacant tower chambers of the old castle, the voices in the courtyard distant and muffled once they had closed the door behind them. Róisín broke their burning kiss once, just to glance about the room. Old, wooden furniture had been carelessly thrown in here, a fallen over wardrobe, an old shelf, a desk, all falling apart, crumbling in on themselves. The windows high in the stone walls were barred with wooden planks, letting only faint shimmers of pale sunlight in, falling dusty into the chamber.

The moment passed quickly when Cullen came closer again, grabbed her belt and pulled her towards him by it. Their lips collided fiercely, making her gasp. Her teeth bit down on his lips roughly, making him hiss and her moan when he pressed closer still, his tongue pushing in to meet hers. She moaned, grinding against him, heat building sharp and clear between her thighs, longing for him.

Her nails scraped over his back, scratching through paint, travelling up his spine. He ripped open her coat, pulled down her trousers, leaving her dishevelled as she climbed out of the legs. Before she could get both feet on the ground again and regain her balance, his arm had come around her, hoisting her up against him and pressing her back against the stone wall. His lips were on hers, burning like fire, taking her breath away. She whimpered when his hand came up between her thighs, calloused fingers stroking her, teasing her. She drew in a deep breath as his fingers dipped into her, then let go of a deep moan. Her head fell back against the wall, his lips traced kisses from her chin down her neck, over her pulse, to the nape of her neck.

“Cullen... please...” she moaned, and it took him less than a heartbeat to oblige. It happened fast, he had his skirt out of the way and trousers down by his knees and he was inside her in one swift, deep thrust. They both cried out, she heard her name tumble from his lips when he entered her. She held onto his shoulders, her other hand in his hair, as he began driving himself into her and Maker, she had missed that feeling. She had missed the feeling of his skin against hers, his hungry grunts by her ear, the friction of his thrusts inside her, she had missed the feeling he could stir up in her.

He groaned, his thrusts still for a moment as he grabbed her wrists, pressed them against the wall above her head and tangled their fingers when his lips fell onto hers again. A deep, hard kiss, a kiss full of longing, but it lasted only a moment before he took both her wrists in one and with his other hand caught hold of her behind, to push her against him, to meet his new thrusts. Her back arched away from the wall, her hands aching to feel his skin but hopelessly locked in his grip. He leaned forward, his body against hers, his lips on her shoulder, kissing, biting. She felt the vibration of his voice, his groans rumble through his body, her own whimpers and moans a high, trembling contrast.

She cried out in pleasure when she came hard and fast, thighs shaking with exhaustion as she tried to hold onto him. And he came just a heartbeat later, hand digging into her hips, bruising them perhaps as he drove himself into her in desperate thrusts before he spilled himself, filling her, and his body stilled with a cry forming around her name like an ecstatic prayer. Finally, he fell forward, face buried at the nape of her neck and he released her hands, let them fall around his neck immediately. They both struggled to breath, skin sweaty, breaths hot against each other and she caressed his dishevelled curls and he the bruises at her hips. Slowly, she lowered her legs, trembling feet searching for solid ground.

“Maker’s breath…” she whispered by his ear when she finally regained her bearings. How she had missed this, missed being this close to each other in the afterglow, with the echo of his voice crying out her name still ringing in her ears.

They parted reluctantly, still out of breath, and when she met his gaze his eyes seemed on fire. He closed the distance, his lips claiming hers again passionately, despite both tasting of sweat. And then a breathy whisper as he stroked through her hair.

“I… love you so much…” he whispered breathless, making her heart ache at the thought of having to leave again. She kissed him again, hands on his cheeks, skin pressed against his. She did not want to leave. She knew she had to. She knew whatever the Wardens were doing in the Western Approach needed her immediate attention. But the thought of leaving him behind here, again, and this time for so long… the thought of not being able to wake up next to him for weeks and weeks, to not hear him whisper her name, to not share kisses again in so long…

She clung to his lips, his hands stroking her bare skin lovingly until finally, they parted.

“We… should… Cassandra and the others will want to see me…” Ros whispered. Cullen nodded quietly and moved a little away from her. Not far, not enough to actually feel the absence of his warmth. Her hands gently stroked over his painted skin. He crouched before her to pick up her discarded trousers and helped her into them again, kissing the bare skin before covering it. It was a slow, tender process, not a word spoken between them. He closed her coat, brushed his fingertips over the nape of her neck, then kissed her neck up to her chin and then her lips.

“When you’re done… find me in the mead hall?”

She caught his lips again, gently pressing hers to his, nibbling his lower lip and then kissing his scar.

“I will. I love you.”

She walked past him, hand stroking over his chest, then along his arm and finally in his hand until only their fingertips touched. And then they broke contact. She turned away to find her way out of the dimly lit room and back outside into the upper courtyard of the castle.

* * *

She felt like walking on air. With no weight to her steps, just the lightness of the memory of his embrace. She crossed the courtyard and made her way up to the mead hall and the war room from there. Josephine already waited anxiously at her desk and upon Ros’ arrival, the ambassador got up with a bright smile.

“Welcome home! Cassandra informed me of your return and that you would call a meeting soon. I took the liberty to call for Leliana, too. They are both inside already.”

“Thank you, Josephine,” Ros replied with a nod.

“How was Crestwood? You must be exhausted.”

“Very. I hope to make the meeting brief and then get a bite to eat and sleep in a proper bed for a change.”

“I can imagine. Is it true that your brought the Warden contact here with you? Alistair, was it? _The_ Alistair?”

“Yes. He does not like to be reminded of that. Oh, and he was asking if we could send a message to the Hero of Ferelden. He was hoping to get in touch with her, but he could never stay around to wait for her replies. I figured he could use Skyhold as a… post box of sorts?”   

“That can be arranged, certainly. Send him by my office and I will set something up for him.”

Ros nodded.

“Thank you.”

Ros left Josephine’s office behind and headed into the war room, where Cassandra was already waiting for her. Only moments later, Leliana and Josephine joined them, followed by… Cullen? Ros blinked up at him slightly confused from the other side of the war table and he shrugged, similarly confused.

“Is my presence here really necessary?” he asked.

“Thane Lion’s Bane has been commanding the Inquisition forces in Cassandra’s absence, I believe having him here for this debriefing is a good idea,” Josephine explained. Cassandra shrugged, then leaned forward over the map. She placed a pin of crossed bronze blades in the Western Approach, the stretch of desert in the far west of Orlais, just south of the infamous Hissing Wastes.

“Intel from our Warden contact suggests that the Grey Wardens are being manipulated by Corypheus. He has provided us with a communication from Warden Commander Clarel, according to which the Wardens are gathering at an old ritual site in the Western Approach, preparing for a major assault on the Deep Roads to fight the remaining Old Gods before they can become a new Blight,” Cassandra explained.

“I… fail to see why that is a problem? Is it not a _good_ thing if the Blights end?” Leliana asked with a frown.

“Alistair has a bad feeling about this. And so have I. That the Wardens are manipulated by Corypheus is reason enough to be wary of this development. I want to investigate. If everything is harmless and helpful, then we can let the Wardens proceed as intended. But… if our suspicions prove correct, we will have to act swiftly,” Ros explained.

“That seems sensible,” Josephine confirmed.

“We will prepare an entourage to leave as soon as you give the order, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said with a nod. She looked up and met Cullen’s gaze. “Perhaps we should go over the roster together, decide who to send.”

Cullen nodded grimly, still looking at the marker on the map.

“Any news about the Empress?” Ros asked towards the ambassador.

“We have some of our best agents watching her, so far the venatori have not made their move,” Leliana responded in her place.

“The Empress is throwing her annual winter masquerade at Halamshiral in a few months. It is an important event, not only because it is where The Game will be played at its perfection, but also because it is supposed to settle the civil war raging between the Empress’ army and the chevaliers who followed duke Gaspard when she won his throne. The political tensions at that ball will be tremendous, and many will want to see blood shed that night…” Josephine explained.

“Masks, civil war, and bard assassins… that sounds like an ideal setting to stage a murder without it reflecting back on anyone. It could lead to utter political chaos within one night,” Ros mumbled.

“I am working on an invitation to an Inquisition delegation to Halamshiral. But so far I have not been successful.”

“Keep at it. We can’t miss this opportunity. The venatori certainly won’t,” Ros said grimly. Josephine nodded, taking a note on her board. Ros looked from her past Leliana until she met Cullen’s gaze. He was bent forward, hands on the edge of the table, and watching her, his eyes darkened by something that had nothing to do with the dim light in the war room. It made a blush sneak into her cheeks. She knew that look. Maker, it was a hungry look, hungry for her. Her face was growing hotter and she had to look away. “Anyways, let’s get to the Western Approach as soon as possible.”

“I can have a party ready for you by tomorrow,” Cassandra assured. Ros had a bitter taste in her mouth at the thought of leaving again so soon. And looking up at Cullen, she knew he shared that sentiment. Across the War Table, his gaze met hers and she saw something heavy and bittersweet in it. She saw him straighten his back, hand clenched around the handle of his sword.

“I’d like for a contingent of my warriors to join. To insure the… Inquisitor’s safety,” he said, clearly contemplating what to call her in front of the other three.

“I understand where you are coming from, Commander. But is the orlesian desert really the place your people will be put to best use? They are much more adept at defending the territory in these mountains,” Cassandra said. Cullen growled to himself, Ros could see a vein pop out at the side of his neck from the tension he was in. But he did nod eventually.

“That is true…” he grumbled.

“Cassandra will pick the men to take to the Western Approach and we will leave as soon as the party is approved,” Ros said with a stern nod and moved a step away from the war table. “If that is all you wanted to discuss, I really need a hot bath and a proper meal…”

“Of course, Inquisitor. It is good to have you back here,” Josephine said with a small bow that irritated Ros tremendously. She had to get used to people bowing. Josephine opened the door of the War Room and Cassandra saluted, was the first one out of the room. Leliana followed, and then Cullen joined Ros. With an arm around her shoulders, he led her out of the room.

“I want to introduce you to someone,” he whispered as he led her through Josephines office and out into the mead hall.

“Oh? I am intrigued,” she said with a smile. He led her towards the throne, but ultimately did not take her there but to the table nearest to it. She could see Edda and Eirik playing there from far, Mia sat at the table, with a platter of food before her, watching her children. And opposite her sat a group of strangers Ros had never seen in the hold before. A giant of a man, with a bushy, thick beard, an older woman with thick, long, silver-grey hair. She was drinking a large mug of ale and her laughter was roaring across the hall. Next to them sat a young woman, maybe a little older than Ros herself. A beautiful woman, with long, red hair as thick as the older woman’s was, she was tall, too, muscular, her skin tanned from the mountain sun. She was beautiful and wild and everything Ros was not. It actually made her sigh a little to think this could have been her, had she grown up in a different life. In Cullen’s life.

“Shiverbeard!” Cullen called out. The bearded man jumped around in his seat. Cullen’s arm dropped off her shoulders and she felt his broad hand rest on her back, holding her by his side gently. When she looked up at him, she saw the brightest smile on his face she had ever seen and she realised this bearded man and his people were as close as family. They had to be. Cullen pointed at him. “Ros, this is Shiverbeard. He’s thane to a hold that was allied with ours for generations. He was a close friend of my mother’s, back in the day. Shiverbeard… this is Róisín, the Marked One.”

Shiverbeard glanced from Cullen to her and back and then his face cracked open with a smile. He bowed his head.

“We have heard much of you. Cullen speaks of little else. He mentioned your beauty, but he was never a man of words, so it certainly did not do you justice. It is an honour to stand in your presence, Marked One.”

Ros blushed a little and chuckled, shaking her head.

“Please, there is no need to be so formal,” she said carefully.

“She’s practically family, Shiverbeard. There’s only formalities left!” Mia declared from across the table. It did very little to calm the blush on Ros’ cheeks. Shiverbeard’s eyes widened.

“Ohhhh so she’s the one?” he asked. Cullen cleared his throat nervously and when she glanced over at him, she saw him rub the back of his neck, like he did when he was searching for words. Familiar, and most dear, a sight. Shiverbeard knew it as well, for the thane laughed and opened his arms wide. Before she knew what happened, Ros found herself encased in a massive bear hug by the large Avvar. “Then I am even happier to finally meet you. You’re good for that man, he needs one like you.”

“I do my best…” Ros mumbled with a blush. Shiverbeard pulled away, then pointed at the two women by his side who had risen from their seats now.

“My wife, Vaala, and our daughter Alyosha,” he introduced. The wife, Vaala, nodded.

“It is an honour to meet you, Marked One. And a pleasure to meet one so close to Cullen and his family.”

Rose smiled, felt relaxed that these close friends of Cullen seemed to accept her so willingly. When she took Vaala’s hand, the woman pulled her into a hug abruptly, made Ros stumble into her arms with a gasp. She heard Cullen laugh behind her and knew she was deep red by the time Vaala released her. Instantly, Cullen’s arm return around her, holding her close like he never wanted to let her go again and it made her lean against him.

“Ros has had a long journey, I am sure she would like to retire for the day,” he said, his hand stroking her back. Ros was just about to gasp and tell him that she did not wish to be rude, but Mia interrupted with a wide grin.

“Off with you two, we know you can barely keep your hands to yourselves,” the huntress said with a wicked grin. Cullen coughed awkwardly and Ros chuckled. Well, Mia was not wrong, she could not wait to be alone with her thane. So she turned towards him, got to her tiptoes to press her lips to his cheeks.

“I’ll be off to the bath,” she whispered.

“I will join you in a little while, there is something I need to take care of first,” he replied. His arm wrapper around her waist, pressing her tight against him before he closed his lips over hers – earning them cheers from onlooking Avvar. Ros chuckled when they parted and as he released her from his embrace, she turned back to Shiverbeard and his family. She bowed her head.

“It is a pleasure to have you here, all of you.”

“Thank you,” Shiverbeard replied with a grin.

Rose turned away and left the group near the throne, disappearing through the door behind the throne.

 

Cullen watched as she left, watched the sway of her hips, sparking his desire for her again. Gods help him, he could not be away from this woman again.

A nudge in his side pulled his attention away from the door closing behind her, and he found Shiverbeard’s wide grin.

“She’s a beauty, Cullen. I see why you are so smitten with her.”

“More than smitten, I’d say. Look at the man, he’s in love,” Vaala corrected with a smile. Cullen smiled back, could not help but nod. There was no point in denying it.

He excused himself from his friends and turned towards Mia.

“A word, sister?”

Mia rose from her seat with a nod and the two of them retreated from the busy table into a quieter corner near the throne.

“What troubles you?” she asked. Cullen leaned his back against the wall, his gaze on the door behind which Ros had disappeared to take her bath in her room high in the tower.

“Ros…”

“She seemed content.”

“Yes, just… she will be leaving again. Tomorrow, possibly. To travel deep into Orlais. And… I will go with her.”

“Cullen…” Mia began, but did not finish. He shook his head.

“I know it is selfish, but I don’t want to be without her so long, leaving her in the protection of people I hardly know. I want to be there, I want to make sure she is safe. While I am gone I will need you to protect Skyhold.”

“Cullen, this is not a good idea. We know Samson is preparing for battle, if he comes here while you are away-”

“Then you will be here. And Bran, and Rosalie. Shiverbeard and his men, and many of the Inquisition soldiers. Skyhold is defended, even if I am not here. But Ros…”

“Ros is a more powerful mage than any of our shamans have ever been, you know that, right? When push comes to shove, she will not be taken down. She can protect herself.”

He grunted.

He knew that. Of course she could protect herself. Ros was powerful, more powerful than any mage he had ever seen. And that mark on her hand, be it blessing of the Lady or any other power, made her a force to be reckoned with even more. He knew all that, and he knew she did not need protection. But the thought of being miles and miles away from her while she faced Gods know what out in that desert made his stomach turn. He wanted to be near her.

And he could see that Mia knew that. His sister crossed her arms over her chest. “You know, you could just say ‘I don’t want to be away from her for several weeks, not knowing what she’s doing or if she’s alright’. That is much more convincing than trying to tell me you think she can’t protect herself.”

“Well, I don’t want to be away from her,” he admitted with a grumble. Mia nodded with a grin.

“See, was that so hard? Michael and I will watch Skyhold, the people will be safe. And you’ll be with your wife.”

“She’s not-”

“Not yet,” Mia interrupted with a grin as she walked past him to re-join Shiverbeard and the rest. Cullen stayed behind, drew in a deep breath and let go of the sigh. Then a smile returned to his lips. He turned away, towards the door, and left the mead hall behind. Climbing up the steps, he left his lion fur and boots in the small chamber he had once slept in and on bare soles made his way up to the room where Ros had to be.

* * *

The air in her chambers smelled sweet and fruity, from the oils in her bath no doubt, and it was warm up here, a fire crackling in the fireplace, the windows closed. Just as he reached the top of the stairs, he saw Ros climb into her bath, sinking into the tub with the scented water, surrounded by steam. She was beautiful that way, flawless naked skin, every curve like a work of art as she lowered herself into the tub, even though she was covered in dirt and grime. He noticed a large, unpleasant looking, discoloured bruise on her side and three scratches, as if from claws, on the matching shoulder. Battlescars, he thought. The sheltered lowland Princess was changing.

He came closer, and when she noticed the movement, her head turned, her eyes meeting his. She smiled as he walked towards her and sat on the edge of the tub. It made her lean her head back so she could still see his face.

“It’s nice to be back here. I missed you,” she whispered.

“And I you.”

He reached for a sponge, soaked it in the scented bathwater warmed by her magic, and then he rubbed it over her back gently. He scrubbed away the dirt from the road, crusted blood of enemies she had slain, revealing her beautiful skin, the many freckles otherwise hidden under her clothes. She moaned blissfully as the sponge massaged her back, scrubbed her shoulders, her arms. He leaned down once to press a gentle kiss on her shoulder, then her shoulder blades, making her shudder softly under his touch. He reached around for her chin, tilting her head back to meet her lips in a soft, lingering kiss. Only when they parted did her lips curl into a smile.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Cullen reached under the water, brushing his fingers along her side and he could feel her flinch, teeth gritted as he slightly pressed against the bruise.

“Tell me what happened there?”

“It’s still from the dragon. Got knocked down by the tail, threw me halfway across the ruin where we fought the thing. Knocked the air right from my lungs. Couldn’t breathe for a minute or two, before Vivienne helped me. She said I might have broken a rib or… four…” she recollected, growing quieter as she spoke. He shook his head slowly. That settled that, for certain. He would not let her go on her own. He would be there if she was injured in battles, he would take care of her wounds if she needed him. He had to be there for her.

He kissed her temple, let his lips stay there softly before she turned her head and kissed him back. Gentle at first, deeper then, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and used him to pull herself up, out of the water. His arms came around her wet, naked body, holding her against him, her breasts pressed against his chest, water dripping over their skin, teasing. She climbed onto the edge of the tub and wrapped her legs around his waist, making his hands cup the cheeks of her behind to hold her up. She then pulled her lips from the kiss and with a smirk nodded towards the bed.

He needed no further encouragement.


	28. Heart of the Lion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loads (hehehe... I am so immature) of smut in the beginning, then loads of backstory in the end!

Her skin smelled of bathing oils, was still slick to the touch when they sank onto the bed. Her fingertips were hot against his skin, roaming, just as his lips roamed over her. He inhaled her scent, his tongue savouring her taste as it traced along her collarbone. He had missed the little moans and whimpers that escaped her pink lips when they touched. He knelt between her legs, hands kneading her thighs. He could feel how muscular she had grown over the weeks away, but there was still that softness to her curves he loved so much. Ah, how he had missed touching her, kissing her. He travelled lower, licking his way up the curve of her breast, circling a nipple before he sucked it in between his lips. She arched her back up towards him, eyes closed and lower lip pulled between her teeth, turning their natural pink into a flushed red. One arm wrapped around her waist to hold her up this way, to provide easier access to her breasts, the other travelled between her thighs until he reached their apex. The dark curls above her sex were still wet from the bathwater, but the wetness between her folds was of a different kind. He stroked his fingers along her slit, felt her shudder to his touch, and the thought of burying himself in that wet heat once more made him groan with need.

He took all his time now. Not like earlier, when they had rushed, when they had needed the quick release of desires pent up for weeks. This time, he teased her, watched her fall apart as he slowly stroked her, fingertips circling her entrance, thumb casually brushing her clit to remind her of what he could do. Her thighs trembled against him. He pulled his lips away from her breasts, the nipples hardened and pert after his thorough ministration, and his kiss wandered past her belly button, lower, ever lower. He pulled his thumb away, and with only the tip of his tongue and with his gaze fixed on her face, he stroked over her clit. She drew in a sharp breath, let go of a cry of pleasure and pressed her hips further off the mattress, against his tongue. It made him close his mouth over her sex, soaking her with his tongue, drawing a moan of approval from him, humming against her.

“Ah… Cullen…” he heard her whimper.

“Hmmm… I missed the way you taste, my love…” he whispered, hot breath tickling over her wet sex. She was glistening before him and he could barely contain his own arousal. The sound, the taste, the sight of her made him rock hard all over again. He spread her further with his fingers, let his tongue circle her entrance, dip into her slightly, with his nose nuzzled against her clit – knowing well what that would do to her. And she did not disappoint. Her hips jolted with a cry of his name, mewls of lust escaping her as he took care of her. He could barely hold himself up, so heavy the strain of his cock, eager to be inside her.

So he did the only thing he thought he could to continue what he was doing.

He pulled away from her, causing a whimpered protest. But he grinned.

“I need a moment, my love. You make it very… hard to think.”

She chuckled and sat up with a gasp.

“Lie down, my thane.”

He looked at her confused for a second, but who was he to deny her when she gently pushed him back by his shoulders. She straddled him and pulled open his loincloth. He had to groan when she slid along his length, her folds slick against him. Breathing was a struggle, when he needed to be inside her more than he needed air. And the way she looked, straddling him, having him completely at her mercy.

“Gods… you are so beautiful…” he whispered in awe. He reached to grab her hips, to keep her sliding along his cock, making him groan. “I need you…”

But she took his wrists and leaned forward, pressing his hands into the mattress. Physically, he could easily overpower her – and they both knew that. But oh, he wanted to play along with this. He glance up at her with a brow raised and a smirk, he could not deny that it was… exhilarating to have her in charge of everything. She smirked and released his wrists, but he stayed where she had ordered when she reached down, warm fingers stroking his cock, angling it to press against her entrance. And he watched as she very slowly lowered herself, sliding her sex around him. He groaned as her heat wrapped around him. She moaned and slowly, so slow it was the most delicious agony, rolled her hips. She slid up and down his length with each movement, clutching to him, moaning, her eyes closed in pleasure. And he wanted to hold her, wanted his hands to knead into her flesh as she rode him. Yet when his hands moved, her movement stilled and she glanced down at him. There was a spark in her eyes, a fire, that made him obey, despite it being almost painful to keep his hands off her. He gritted his teeth, eyes closed so all he could do was feel here, feel her walls slide around him, pulsing with heat and wetness. Groans erupted from his throat every time she moved, his hands clutched the furs under them to have something to hold onto. Her moans were higher, sweeter, and her fingernails left red scratches on his chest and stomach. Her head fell back, hips rolled with urgency and her moans grew louder, gasping for breath.

“Cullen…” she whispered. “Touch me…”

Instantly, with the permission given, he had propped himself up on one elbow, the other arm wrapped around her to steady her, hold her tight, fingers kneading into her behind. And with the new leverage, he could meet her rolling hips with sharp snaps of his own. They met in a hungry kiss, breaths mingling as she whimpered his name. “Ah… ah… _Maker_ … Cullen! Ah!”

Her arms clutched to him when she came around him, her hands fisted in his curls and his face buried at the nape of her neck, the scent of the bath and her skin surrounding him. His tongue trailed along her earlobe as she shuddered with her climax. Her walls squeezed, clenched so tight around him he was close to follow her. He bit down on her earlobe ever so lightly, then caught her neck in an open mouthed kiss to suppress the roar burning in his throat when he came in her, spilled himself until they both stilled, breathless and satisfied.

Forehead to forehead they lingered, still joined at the hip, quite literally. Her fingers trembled as she stroked his cheeks and he kissed her lower lip. A sheen of sweat shimmered on their skin, the scent of her bathwater mixing with the musk of her, of sex and sweat and blissful exhaustion.

“And by the Gods, I love you, my Róisín…” he whispered. She smiled a tired, but blissful smile and then very carefully slipped off him. He watched, her legs shake from the exhaustion, some of his spent dripping from her sex, then she had rolled over and fallen back into the cushions with a sigh. She grabbed one of the warm blankets and wrapped it around herself, snuggling up to him.

Cullen wrapped his arms around her, held her close with her lips resting against her damp hair.

“You know what I missed?” she asked.

“Specifically?” he asked. She nodded.

“You know, aside from… the things you do with your tongue, or the way you growl my name when you come. I missed the way you hold me. I missed falling asleep in your arms and waking up in them. You’re so warm… it feels… really nice.”

He smiled to himself, ridiculously pleased with himself, for making her feel that way. His thumb circled over her shoulder.

“You will not have to go without me anymore,” he said softly.

“If only that were true. The Western Approach is… so far away…” she sighed. He smiled.

“I will join you there. I will not let you go there on your own.”

She propped herself up on her elbows, allowing him a very beautiful look at her breasts.

“What? What about the hold? Don’t they need you here? I don’t want to tear you away from them…”

He smiled, reached to stroke her cheek and then leaned over to kiss her.

“You’re not tearing me away. Mia and Michael will be in charge of the hold while I am away. I can’t bear the thought of being without you for so long. So I won’t. If you will have me.”

She laughed and scooted closer, wrapped her arms around him and pulled him over her into a kiss. Gentle and everlasting, their lips melting together like wax under too warm a touch, merging them, their breath as one. She had his lower lip pulled between hers when they finally parted, nibbling gently before she opened her eyes again.

“Of course I will have you.”

He smiled at her, then pulled her flush against him, under the covers so the two of them could slowly drift into sleep.

* * *

He woke first, as seemed to be the norm, and watched the woman by his side with a smile. So beautiful, so peaceful, his beloved. With his fingertips, he ever so gently caressed her shoulders and when she stirred, just a little, he moved closer and kissed her.

“Good morning…” he whispered against her lips. She smiled, curled up closer to him, seeking the warmth of his body. Then she looked up at him.

“Tell me about Shiverbeard. You said he was a friend of your mother’s?”

Cullen nodded.

“Next to my father… Shiverbeard was probably her best friend. Loyal. Always honest. He was her second in Command, as Michael is to me now.”

“You… never told me what happened. To your mother.”

Cullen fell silent. And she noticed that it was weighing on him, he could tell by the way she now stroked his chest, lips grazing his shoulders this time. His arms came around her and he stared at the stone ceiling, absentmindedly stroking her warm skin. And she almost thought he would not confide in her, but then he spoke.

“I told you that my mother became known as the Unvanquished, right? That she defended her throne in this castle against everyone who tried to take it from her. Skyhold has always been a desired prize. Everyone wanted it. Everyone hoped to get their hands on it. She fought battle after battle to keep this castle and Hakkon, our God of war, seemed to favour her. For her enemies fell in the thousands on this glacier. There were times when the ice ran red with their blood and Ethel the Unvanquished stood atop the walls of her castle, blade in hand, armour glistening in the cold sunlight, like the incarnation of war herself. She was magnificent.

Growing up as the son of the Unvanquished made me proud. You could say my pride was her downfall, in the end. Ever since I was a wee lad, I wanted to become thane. I wanted to stand on those walls like she did and inspire that kind of loyalty, and lead my people into battle like she had. I trained vigorously, and I thought myself special. As if being her son somehow made me unvanquished as well. It made me cocky. I don’t think I would have been the kind of man worthy of your love back then. And what scares me even more is that I don’t know if I was the kind of man who would have fallen in love with you.”

“Oh?” she asked, a little amused. He laughed weakly.

“I liked my lovers easy, back then. You’re a piece of work.”

She laughed a hearty laugh.

“That I am!” she confirmed proudly. He looked away from the ceiling to watch that laugh, the sunlight on her face, her hair messy from sleep. So beautiful. He smiled.

“Worth working for, though…” he whispered. He saw her cheeks turn pink and her laugh turn into a flustered giggle as she buried her face in his side to hide that blush. He turned stern again.

“I was… I was 21 when things went horribly wrong. I was a foolish boy at heart, still. It was the year my mother started contemplating passing the leadership of the hold on to me. She thought about Mia as well, but by that time Mia had gotten into her relationship with Michael and had requested of our mother not to be made thane – she loved Michael, and she was unsure if she would be able to share that love with the rest of the clan. Our mother understood. And she knew I wanted only to become thane, could not wait for the day. So, one day, she took me hunting. Me and… and a group of our finest hunters, among them my bitter rival. A man named Raleigh Samson. He was the son of a lowlander who had come to live with our people to study and learn about the way of the Avvar. Raleigh grew up here, he was just a little older than me. We had been friends as little boys, but as we grew older, our visions for the future of the hold grew apart and so did we. By the time my mother took me on that hunt… I’d barely even describe him as a friend anymore.

We were stalking a herd of harts at the edge of the lowlands, noble beasts, beautiful creatures. We needed only one or two to supply the hold with horn to craft tools from, and meat to be cured and last us the winter. But as we neared the herd, we noticed tracks of other humans, heavily armoured – not for a hunt, but for combat. My mother ordered us to retreat – we were not equipped to face a potentially well prepared group of warriors. But I didn’t listen. I thought I could handle it, and that we needed these harts more than we needed our own safety. So I separated from our group and approached the herd. I had the perfect shot lined up, everything was as it should be, I would shoot that hart and earn my place. But… it went wrong. Of course it went wrong. My shot alerted the men in hiding to my presence. There were many of them, nearly twenty, and just six of us, and I was separated from the group. They broke from their cover and attacked me, before I knew it, I was running for my life. The battle exploded around me, everything happened so fast. Blades crashed into blades, arrows were soaring… Next thing I know, I have a sword rammed in my side.”

He scooted over a little, half rolled away from her and revealed his most prominent scar – an ugly cut in his side. Ros’ fingertips traces the rough scar gently. “I remember the pain like it was yesterday. I couldn’t breathe, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. I am kicked down, collapse onto the ground. A warrior stands above me, ready to strike me down. Around me… everyone falls. Men and women I had known all my life lie gutted on the grass, their screams dying away. I know I doomed them all, I know I will die. But instead, the warrior attacking me is knocked back. My mother. She… she yells at me to get up and run, save myself. She demands it, orders it, tells me I cannot disobey my thane. So I force myself to my feet and limp away, blood running down my side. I look back once, see her fighting off eight men at a time, her roars of fury filling the valley. Then she is pierced by a sword. And another. Roars turn to screams as she is… she…”

His voice broke. He had to close his eyes, shake his head, shake off the memory. He remembered it all so clear. Remembered watching from the distance as she is hacked to pieces, as the Unvanquished falls.

It is the gentle touch of Ros that pulls him back to the present, her hands warm on his face and when he opens his eyes he finds her eyes full of love and care and worry and kindness.

“It wasn’t your fault…”

“But it was. Had I not been too proud to back away from that hunt, it would have never come to that. We would have left, the men would have never known we’d been there. We could have found other game to hunt, it did not need to be that herd. I was prideful and foolish and put my own selfish need to proof myself above the safety of my people. That was not what a thane would do. A good thane – my mother – would have protected her people. Because of me, some of our best people died that day. Our thane died that day.

The only ones to make it out alive were me and Samson. He found me about a day later – I had hardly any blood left in me, could barely walk a straight line, had lost my bearings, no idea where I was going. He half carried me back to Skyhold and delivered the message to our people: the Unvanquished was dead. And… it was my fault. He told them everything that had happened, and everyone looked at me like I had personally cut out her heart. I might as well have. It felt like it. Samson… he… said I could not stay, that the Gods would not allow it, that I had doomed them all. So I left. I couldn’t stay there, I… left. And I never looked back.

Over time, some joined me. I still don’t know why. After what I had done, what I had caused, almost tearing apart the tribe. I was told Samson claimed the throne for himself, but people disagreed. Mia and Michael disagreed and it came to a falling out, splitting the tribe into those that followed Samson and agreed with what he wanted the tribe to be, and those who did not believe his words, did not believe that the Unvanquished had fallen because of my foolish mistake, but because of a betrayal from her own ranks. The infighting grew so severe that the augur had to step in – the Gods declaring that Skyhold would be no one’s throne unless we could prove our worth. And so Samson and his men left the castle, just as I had. Few stayed behind, the ones you saw when we first got here. A small group of our scouts travelled between the castle and the tribe, Michael included. That’s how it’s been for ten years now…”

When his voice ebbed away, Ros looked up curiously.

“Then… how did you become thane? It didn’t seem like you were particularly keen on it, after…”

He shook his head.

“I wasn’t. Not at all. People did treat me like a leader, and if you ask them now they will say I became their thane when my mother died, but I was reluctant to accept that role. After what I had done, I did not see myself fit to lead anyone, thought that I would only bring more tragedy if I tried to claim the title of thane. But circumstances changed. It was barely three years ago. We were far away from Skyhold, nearing the borders to Orlais in fact. There we came across remnants of a battlefield, where Avvar of another tribe had been slaughtered. The sight worried us, so we investigated and came across an encampment of Orlesian soldiers.”

“Chevaliers?” Ros asked perplexed. Cullen shrugged.

“The ones with the big feathers in their helmets. Maybe Chevaliers is what they call themselves. We had never seen this much gold in one place, all their armour made to resemble lions. And they were crossing the borders to Ferelden. We figured they were planning an invasion, which would surely spark the old war anew. Something none of us wanted to see. The orlesians wanted to use the lingering weakness of Ferelden after the Blight to stake their claim on the land. We could not let that happen. There were few of us, and many of them, so we had to be strategic about it. We knew the terrain better than them, so we managed to lure them into a narrow pass. I was in the pass with them, cutting of their trail forward, with me a handful of warriors, while Mia led the archers on the slopes to either side of the pass. They rained arrows on them, while we picked them off from within. It was a bloody battle, almost a day and a night it took until we had slain everyone but their commander. I met him on the battlefield, an impressive man with a silver tongue who tried to convince us to let our guard down, that we owed Ferelden no loyalty, that we were a free people independent of the lowlander Queen on her throne in Denerim. He used our words, and tried to convince us he had our best interest at heart. I refused to let him take control, so we fought. A duel, him and me. I defeated him, split his golden lion armour wide open and as he fell, my people celebrated. The few soldiers that were left ran for their lives and we never saw a single Orlesian at our borders again – those who ventured close made sure to not cross our path. The day I instilled fear in the lions of Orlais, I earned my title among my people. Lion’s Bane. That was the day I truly became thane...”

His story came to a close and he turned towards Ros. He was not sure what he would see. He had never told anyone about his past. All of his people knew what he had done, how he had failed his people and got his own mother slaughtered so long ago. It was a shame he had lived with among the Avvar for a decade now, and not even his glorious victory over the Lions of Orlais could make up for that in the eyes of some. As Shiverbeard said, Samson still had many supporters. There had never been a need to tell the story, to say it out loud. He wondered if she would still look at him the same way or…

But when he met her eyes all he saw was love. More love than he ever thought he deserved. She moved closer, her lips soft as butterfly wings on the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you. For telling me this,” she whispered. “I know it can’t have been easy to talk about.”

“It wasn’t. But… I am glad I did. I am glad you know. Does… does it… change things?” he asked reluctantly.

“Change things?”

“Your feelings…”

“Cullen are you asking me if I… if knowing this diminishes my love for you?”

“I wouldn’t blame you if-”

She laughed.

“Don’t be foolish. I love you. I will always love you. And what you told me has not changed the way I see you. I see a thane who cares deeply for his people, a man who made mistakes in his life and works hard to be better, a man who puts his people above himself. And from what I have learned about your mother, I believe she would be incredibly proud of the man you have become.”

She gently kissed him and Gods, he was certain he had never been this in love with anyone, and never felt this loved.

“Gods… I am a lucky man to have you beside me,” he whispered, arms wrapped tight around her. She returned his embrace, eyes closed, resting against him in light slumber.

“I am glad you will be with me in the Western Approach,” she whispered.

They stayed in bed and in each other arms for most of the morning.

And most of that day, to be precise.


	29. Guilty Pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you thought I wouldn't include Uldred :P 
> 
> Now, as November approaches, I think I should let you guys know that I will update a bit irregular, as I will be doing Nanowrimo (and hopefully get my damn manuscript finished, so maybe - juuuuust maybe - you'll actually be able to read a book I wrote sometime in the future. An actual, physical book!) But rest assured, before I disappear into Nanoland, you'll get some more smut from our favourite barbarian and Inquisitor :3

It was a beautiful day in Skyhold and the Inquisitor had not shown her face since she had left the meeting in the war room yesterday. Cassandra Pentaghast was not surprised. The Seeker was in the upper courtyard, where she spent most of her days training, sparring with the Iron Bull or Blackwall, or reading. Lately, mostly reading. It had been a good two weeks since she had a chance to pick up her book in a quiet moment and read, where no one would comment or ridicule her choice of literature.

She glanced up at the highest tower of the castle, where she knew Róisín’s chambers to be.

 _Róisín_.

It still took a bit of getting used to, calling her by her name when she had only ever thought of her as the ‘Herald of Andraste’ and the ‘Inquisitor’. But that was before they had been in such close quarters for two weeks at a time, before they had fought the undead together and driven out bandits and killed a dragon. That sort of experience connected, in a way. Now her… _friend_ , she supposed – yes, perhaps Róisín was a friend – was up there in her chambers, no doubt with her Avvar lover.

An unusual pair they made, but Cassandra could see the allure. There was something liberating about the way the Avvar lived. She had watched it with curiosity herself, the people of the highlands that had offered them shelter, had shared their home with the Inquisition. They were… good people, had a kindness to them she had not expected, and the way they enjoyed life was enviable. They were raw and vulgar at times, and rough and dangerous at others. And then they were caring and loving of their own. But Maker, when she watched their thane with Róisín, it was almost breathtaking how in love that man was. Being near her turned the brutal barbarian warrior soft and gentle and the way he touched her was like he was handling the most fragile thing in the world – even though he clearly knew she was strong enough to take the whole castle apart if she so wanted. And was that not the dream? A man who worshipped you not only for your beauty, but also for your strength? Who carried you on hands and would read your every wish from your eyes and knew you were his equal in every respect?

Cassandra sighed. That _was_ the dream.

Her gaze returned to the pages of her book with a sigh and she went through the next few pages in silence.

“You blush, Seeker.”

Cassandra yelped and leapt off the grass where she had been sitting, clutching her book behind her back and staring in disbelief at the grinning face of one of the Avvar. The one looking after the horses, she recalled. A young man, a boy almost, _easily_ half her age, with wild blond curls partially pulled into a small braid, and bright brown eyes sparkling with mischief. His painted torso had a pattern that reminded her of a stylized horse, no doubt signifying his position as horse master. He wore only a skirt-like garment made of leather and fur, and boots to match, and a short, golden beard covered half of his face and drew her attention to a well-shaped mouth.

“Maker, don’t sneak up on me like that. I might have drawn a sword on you!” she declared. The Avvar boy glanced from her face to her belt and the suspicious lack of a blade dangling from her hip, then back at her. The grin had returned, revealing teeth he no doubt cared for well.

“I see no sword. For all the fearsome stories they tell about the Dragon’s Bane, all I see is a woman flushed by what I can only assume is a naughty story.”

“It is not a…! What would make you say that?” she asked, well aware that it did little to help her hide the blush.

“Saw the picture on the cover. Looked naughty to me.”

Of course. Cassandra rolled her eyes in annoyance and let go of an upset grunt as she looked down at the book. Of course, the cover showed two lovers in a half-naked embrace, the woman holding a blazing sword, the man a shield with the crest of the Templars on it. _Swords And Shields_.

“It is literature. Well-known literature in the,” she hesitated, looking for words, hoping they would cut as she eyed the boy up and down “civilised parts of the world.”

“Ohoooo is that meant to offend me, Seeker? You obviously know very little of the world. And dare I say,” he said, nodding back at her book “Very little of romance.”

Cassandra produced a disgusted noise of annoyance, one she had used far too much in the last months – mostly because of Varric and apparently now because of this nosy Avvar.

“Do not presume to know me, Avvar.”

“Branson,” he corrected her. She huffed.

“Branson,” she repeated exaggeratedly and his name felt weird on her tongue.

He raised his hands in defence, but never once did the big grin leave his lips.

“Hey, I am just trying to see what all the stories are about. See the Dragon’s Bane for myself. Everyone does. Of course, not everyone _dares_. They all think you’ll poke a hole in them with that mighty sword of yours.”

“And let me guess: You are not afraid? Please, I have read _that_ book, too,” Cassandra replied, rolling her eyes as she sat back down, opening her book and raising it over her nose to hide behind it.

“Really?” Branson asked from the other side.

“Really.”

“Because you’re holding it the wrong way around.”

Cassandra blinked, stared at the upside down writing before her very nose, then scoffed with annoyance as she lowered the book again, shoulder sinking.

“Well, I was finished anyways, and the latest chapter is not out yet,” she declared, reaching over to gently slap the Avvar on the arm with the flat side of the book. He laughed, then snatched the book from her. He turned it in hands twice, then stopped at the back cover showing none other than Varric Tethras himself.

“That’s the storyteller? The children of the hold love him and his tall tales…” Branson mused. He then looked up at her again. “Is he writing the next chapter for you?”

“I don’t know. He is writing _something,_ but the way it sounds, it is more likely the tale of our Inquisitor and her barbarian lover,” she said, rolling her eyes with a nod up to the tower.

“Yeah… these two… rutting like nugs. Only a matter of time before he puts a baby in her.”

“And how would that go down with your people?”

Branson clicked his tongue and, without waiting for invitation, sat down opposite her in the grass.

“Ros, as mother of our thane’s child? There’d be weeks of celebration. The hold adores her. She’s basically part of the hold already. You should have been in the mead hall when they came down from their room the first time. Everyone was cheering for them. Real life romance, right there. Don’t need books for that.”

“I know Róisín so happens to be an avid reader of this very tale,” Cassandra remembered.

“Get out.”

“Certainly.”

Branson laughed heartily. Maker, she envied how... carefree he was.

“Well, I guess there is still much we don’t know about our future sister in law…”

Cassandra looked up, the book lowered a little.

“You… do you think they will stay together? When all this is over? Get married? Have children?” she asked curiously. Bran’s cheeky grin and mischievous spark vanished and suddenly, he was stern, gave her an earnest look.

“Cullen loves her like he has never loved before. My brother is not one to make such a choice lightly. He is giving himself to her, and if she wants him… then yes, I do think they will stay together,” he explained. Cassandra nodded lightly, gave a wistful sigh.

“It is quite a romantic thought, that even in such dark times, something so beautiful and strong can blossom…”

The grin returned to Bran’s face but this time it was honest and sweet.

“The stuff of legends.”

And Cassandra could not help but laugh. She caught it in an almost hiccup. _Maker’s Breath_ , what was wrong with her?! He was not being charming, he was annoying and irritating and… and well, a little handsome. Just a little. Maybe a little charming. In his… barbarian ways! _Maker_ , he was half her age, surely! She shouldn’t even be thinking along those line!

She dramatically closed her book and rose to her feet.

“I should go,” she declared, cheeks hotter than they should be. She saw the young Avvar grin up at her.

“You should come to the feast tonight. You know, integrate your Inquisition, mingle with the locals.”

“I really shouldn’t… I… I’ll think about it…”

She turned and rushed away, but she did hear him and the grin in his voice when he called out:

“You’re cute when you blush, Seeker!”

And _Maker_ , did she blush!

* * *

 It was a buzzing night. The warmth of sweet brews and large fire bowls chased away the cold of the night, and the Avvar were in the best mood. Ros had learned much of them in her time with the tribesmen, but tonight showed her a new side of them, a beautiful side.

She and Cullen had taken their sweet time, putting on the painted skin. Things had changed much since the last time they had helped each other with that. Then, their touches had been hesitant, careful. She vividly remembered the feeling when he had touched her bare skin for the first time, applying the thick paste of paint. She remembered the careful pressure he applied when he put on her paint all those weeks ago. Remembered how close they had been, already, and it seemed they only grew closer and closer.

Today, she could barely tell where she ended and he began.

Her heart was glowing through the smile on her lips when they sat in front of the fireplace, applying each other’s paint. This time, there was no reluctance in their touches. He caressed her skin, kissed the bare patches before covering them with paint, and he had no reservations to give her breasts a firm squeeze through the breast band, causing her to bubble with laughter and press into his touch to kiss his lips. She brushed her paint covered fingers up his side, pulling an uncharacteristic chuckle from him.

“Well, well, well, I didn’t realise you were ticklish, my thane,” she teased, while leaning in to nibble his earlobe. He laughed, both arms wrapped around her as he dipped her backwards over his lap and leaned down to kiss her, his lips hot and passionate and at the same time sweet and tender. She dragged her fingernails through the paint at his shoulders, left traces of paint in his golden curls.

They had to pull apart, breaths laboured with desire and Cullen swallowed hard.

“We should… get ready. Otherwise we’ll just end up in bed again…”

“Bed is good. I like bed…” Ros breathed. Cullen chuckled.

“And I will take you back there soon enough. But I am also hungry and right about now I feel like I am on fire, so a drink would be much appreciated as well.”

Ros laughed and nodded. The two of them finished their paint and then made their way downstairs. Cullen had his arm around her, hand resting lightly on her waist and when they stepped through the door into the mead hall, they had to press so close together that he could sneak a kiss onto her temple that made her smile.

The mead hall was so much more alive than she had ever seen it. Music and dance, fires, and everyone painted beautifully. A long table was set up with more food than she had ever seen in her life, even in her childhood back at her family home in Ostwick had she not seen this much food in one place. Roasted meat dripping in sauce, fresh breads, grilled vegetables, something akin to meat pie. The mouth-watering smells mixed with those of fresh, warm mead, bitter ales, pipe smoke and the slight sweatiness of the many bodies gathered in the hall into a potpourri of life and joy.

“You’re right… I’m famished,” she admitted, feeling her stomach rumble at the prospect of soon being filled with delicious food. Cullen laughed, led her to the throne and made her sit down in it before he leaned toward her – blocking out the firelight before he kissed her.

“Stay where you are, my lowlander, I’ll get you all the food you want. Mead?”

“Yes please.”

She watched him as he made his way to the food, his steps light and… happy? _Maker_ , did she make him happy? Did she somehow help him heal from the trouble he had burdened his soul with after what happened to his mother ten years ago? Was she healing him, as much as he healed her? Like he had made her give her heart to him even when she thought she could no longer. Were they actually… helping each other?

“Haven’t seen him that happy in years. Never even thought I’d use the word ‘happy’ to describe Cullen again.”

Ros looked up at Shiverbeard, who had appeared right by her side, walking up the steps to the dais. He sat down on the steps, looked up to her and she suddenly felt very aware of the fact that she was on the throne. Shiverbeard smiled up at her. “Look at you. You look like a true thane. Ethel would be so proud to see this, the woman to capture her boy’s heart. She loved him a great deal, you know?”

“As do I.”

“I have no doubts. Did he tell you about Ethel?”

“A little.”

Shiverbeard nodded and stuffed a pipe.

“Remarkable woman. Kind and caring to her own. But fierce and merciless to her enemies. Cullen always wanted to be like her. And without even noticing it, he became like her. Reminds me so much of her. See… I don’t want him to end the way she did. Stabbed in the back by someone he trusts and loves.”

“He did _not_ stab her in the back! He was a boy, foolish and reckless. He did not mean for any of this to happen!” Ros defended, her voice a low, threatening growl she had not even been aware she could produce. Shiverbeard raised his bushy brows.

“You think I blame Cullen? No child, no. I blame Uldred. We never found proof… and trust me, I’ve been looking. But if anyone had the motive to stage Ethel’s murder… it was him.”

Ros blinked perplexed. That was a name she had never before heard.

“Who… who’s Uldred?”

“Cullen hasn’t told you? Does he still believe this was _his_ fault?”

“Of course he does. Who is Uldred?!” Ros asked, more insistent this time.

“He’s-”

But Shiverbeard’s eyes darted away to spot Cullen approach them. The thane was still grinning.

“Shiverbeard, are you interrogating my wife?” he asked. He did a double take then, and his gaze shot to Ros – as stunned by his statement as he was. “I… I mean… I mean my…”

Shiverbeard rose with a grin.

“I know what you mean. I’ll give you lovebirds some privacy.”

The huge Avvar turned towards Ros, nodded to her quietly and she nodded back before he left. He patted Cullen on the shoulder once and then disappeared in the dancing crowd. Ros looked back at Cullen, and even in the conveniently dim light of the mead hall she could tell that he had turned a deep shade of red as he came closer and out down the small wooden table piled up with food and two jugs of mead for them.

“I… um… What… what I said… It just… it was a slip-up and-”

She reached over to take his hand and smiled.

“Cullen, relax. You told me what it meant. Washing the paint off your skin, remember? You told me it was something done only between spouses. I just… I never really thought about getting married, I guess. It’s not an option for Circle Mages – we’re not allowed to get married, or have families or property. But…” she hesitated a moment, glancing up at him as he sat by her side. And with a very quiet voice she continued: “But I guess I… I am not a Circle Mage anymore…”

“I… this was not how I wanted to bring this up. But… Could you imagine this? This kind of life, in the tribe… with me? I know it’s not... I know you’re probably used to something more, but… Could you… see yourself staying, when all this is over?”

Ros smiled when she took his hands, when she leaned closer to kiss him.

“Of course I can. I love you, Cullen.”

His face lit up, like she had just told him the best news of his life, and it made her heart sigh a little to see him so relieved. He brought her hands to his lips, peppered them with kisses. Then he pulled her closer, his lips crushing on hers, one hand in her hair, the other came to rest on the small of her back. By the time they parted, she had almost completely forgotten the conversation with Shiverbeard and was only reminded of it when they were eating and she spotted the bearded Avvar across the hall. Cullen must have noticed her frown, because he caressed her shoulder, startling her up a little.

“Something worries you?” he asked.

“I… Shiverbeard said something about a man named… Uldred? Who was he?”

Cullen gritted his teeth and leaned back a little. He glanced over at Shiverbeard and sighed.

“Uldred… was my mother’s brother. They never really got along. He was… always a little jealous, I guess. Because she made Shiverbeard her second in command, I guess. After… after her death, I never saw him again. I don’t know if he left the Avvar altogether, or if he’s with Samson’s tribe now…”

“He did not support you? Your own uncle?”

Cullen shrugged.

“We were never close. I guess he was secretly happy that I left… I am surprised he did not take over from Samson in the end.”

“Shiverbeard seems to believe he might have been involved in your mother’s death.”

Cullen shook his head vehemently.

“That’s nonsense. No one could have predicted what happened that day. Uldred was an ass, but he was no murderer.”

Ros nodded. Though the things Shiverbeard had said left a nagging suspicion in her mind, she believed Cullen would know his own family best. Right?

She would snoop. She would most definitely snoop, once they were back from the Western Approach. Not much she could do about it now, she knew that. Just take her mind off things. And his mind.

* * *

She could not believe she had actually come to this.

Cassandra peeked into the mead hall. She had never been here after dark, or when the Avvar clearly used it for their own celebrations. But here she was, standing just outside the door and trying to decide whether or not to go in. But she got a message earlier – just a small slip of paper saying that if she came to the feast, there was a treat waiting just for her. And curiosity had gotten the better of her.

Now she found herself surrounded by dancing, laughing Avvar and before she knew it, she had a jug of mead put in her hand and had a hat made of bear fur put on her head. And a few moments later, there was the younger brother of the thane coming towards her. He grinned at her, his hands behind his back. He was almost completely naked, just a hide loincloth and thick boots, and his skin covered in a thick layer of paint. His long golden curls were dishevelled and wild and there was sweat glittering on his forehead, surely from dancing, sticking strands of hair to his skin.

“Well, look who showed up,” he greeted.

“I assume that message was from you? Didn’t think you knew how to write the Common Tongue?”

“I don’t. But I have a friend who can. And he also gave me this.”

From behind his back, he produced a bundle of papers tied together by rough string and written on in a sharp, precise handwriting.

“And what is that supposed to be?” Cassandra asked, arms crossed over her chest. Branson simply grinned.

“Go on, read it,” he ordered, pushing the papers into her arms. Cassandra grunted, irritated by his grin and the sweat on his forehead and the muscular torso lined out under the paint. Her gaze wandered to the pages before her. The titular line read:

_Swords and Shields, Ch. 5 by Varric Tethras_

Cassandra gasped.

“Maker… is that… did you… how… when?!”

Branson grinned from ear to ear.

“It is. I did. Talked to Varric after our little chat. He actually did not want to get this chapter published at all, so you might very well be the only person who will _ever_ know what happens!”

Cassandra tried to fight it. Maker knows, she really did. She wanted to remain stoic. But the smile lit up her face anyways and there was such giddy excitement bubbling up in her chest. She clutched the manuscript to her chest.

“Thank you. I have no idea why you did this. But thank you... Branson,” she said. And this time, his name did not taste as odd on her tongue anymore. Actually, it was a nice name.

“No reason. Just wanted to see if I could make you smile some more, see you come out of your shell a little,” he said with the brightest, toothy smile. And Maker, she could feel herself blush again.

“Well… you succeeded… Now… if you’ll excuse me, I have a book to read,” she declared. And with the book still clutched to her chest, she backed away from the still grinning Avvar. Only when she was back at the door did she spin around and step outside into the cool air.

Maker, she felt like a little girl again, heart racing in her chest. Whether it was because she was excited and happy she had the newest chapter all to herself, or because of the handsome young man who had given it to her… she decided not to think about that tonight. Instead she retired to her small room upstairs from the workshop, curled up on her bed where she sipped her jug of mead and started reading.


	30. In Death, Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated in a while. NaNo-preparations and NaNo-starting had me a little preoccupied. But here is the newest chapter. There is fluff, there is smut, there is drama: the plot continues! Enjoy!

They were on the road for weeks. It was exhausting and straining, but they were together and she cherished every minute of it. When their large party of Inquisition soldiers made camp, Ros and Cullen shared a tent, first in the crisp, cold outskirts of the Frostbacks, along the borders of Emprise du Lion, and then, as they travelled toward the west, it became warmer and warmer until they passed tropical forests and finally reached the outskirts of the deserts.

Orlais was enormous. Ros sometimes forgot just how far Empress Celene’s realm stretched until it ebbed away into the uninhabited Wilds to the west.

When at first, they cuddled together under furs at night, by the end of their journey west it had gotten unspeakably hot and humid and then dry again. And then they reached the Western Approach.

They stretched out into the distance, golden and red sands, canyons, dried up trees and ruins of ancient civilisations. Solas left their camp during the first night, excused himself so he could explore the ruins, travel the memories in the Fade here.

They made the first camp in the shade of a canyon wall near the gates of an ancient tevinter ruin, from ages past when the empire had stretched across all of this. They gathered by the campfire, where Cassandra had spread out a downscaled map of the area. She was standing over it, as were Alistair, Blackwall, Varric and Cullen. Ros joined them after she had discarded most of her armour and was just in a light tunic, sandals and the thick belt with her sword hilt dangling from it.

Alistair had put a pin into the map, marking their destination, just as Ros approached.

“Ah, good, you’re here. We were just planning our route through the Approach,” Cassandra said as she made more room for Ros to join them.

“We are here. That old Warden outpost I was talking about is over here. If we could go the direct way, it would take us a few hours. Unfortunately…” Alistair explained, then looked up at Cassandra. The Seeker sighed.

“Head Scout Harding just came back with a report about what lies ahead. Apparently there has been an obstruction in an old mining network and the road ahead is blocked. There are ways around it, but they are not secured – and we have signs of bandits, monsters, and an unsettling amount of Venatori sightings. Clearly, a lot of people are very interested in what is happening here right now.”

“Our position is weak, we’re easy prey here…” Alistair added. Ros frowned, looking down at the map before her. There was a large structure indicated across the canyon.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Apparently it’s an old tevinter prison. No longer used, possibly a bandit outpost or overrun by beasts. We haven’t found a way in yet,” Cassandra explained.

“And that?”

“That… is an old fortress, currently occupied by Venatori forces.”

Ros nodded grimly.

“Hm… I don’t care much about the bandits. The Venatori on the other hand…” she said. Cullen nodded.

“We could take the fortress. We have enough men for a small assault like that,” he suggested.

“It would give us a stronger position in the area, if we are expecting trouble…” Cassandra added with a nod. Alistair crossed his arms.

“I am _always_ expecting trouble,” he said grimly.

“But our first priority must be the Warden tower you directed us to. We will take care of that first, then we worry about the fortress.”

“Inquisitor.”

Ros looked up, reacting surprisingly easily to the title – it startled her too, for a moment. Scout Harding had approached their campfire, one of Leliana’s crows on her shoulder and a strikingly heavy looking letter in her hands. “From Skyhold.”

“Thank you, Lace,” she replied with a nod as she took the letter. Scout Harding smiled, perhaps pleasantly surprised the Inquisitor remembered her name, and then excused herself. Ros opened the letter and unfolded the paper. It was written by Leliana – not Josephine, which was unusual. “It’s from Leliana:

_Inquisitor,_

_This message has reached us in Skyhold. You are now gone roughly three weeks and we hope this finds you all well. I have decided to pass this message along to you rather than waiting for your return, as I believe Alistair will be excited to read it_ ,” she read out loud, looking up at the Warden when his name was mentioned. Alistair looked up from the map with a frown.

“Me?”

“What does the message say?” Cassandra inquired. Ros skipped to the beginning of the actual message. The letter was neatly written, although apparently on rather uneven ground, perhaps in a campsite, certainly not a fine Orlesian office.

“ _To the Inquisitor, ambassador Montilyet, and Leliana_

_I apologize for the delayed response, I was unable to reach my messenger, as I was up to the neck in darkspawn. I have you know that I and my companions are well. Though we, too, experienced the Calling you mentioned, we have chosen reason over panic and instead of running to blighted magisters have intensified our search for the cure. As of this message, we are deep in the north, and further messages will be difficult to send or receive for at least the next few months. I regret to inform you that I will not be able to join you in the Western Approach. The earliest I can be back in Southern Thedas is next spring. However, I doubt I could be of any more use to your endeavour than my trusted Leliana already is._

_As soon as my search allows it, I will join you in Skyhold._

_Regards,_

_Warden-Commander Amell_!” Ros read out, her excitement getting the better of her as she reached the last lines.

“That’s the Hero of Ferelden!” Cassandra called out.

“She’s well? She’s… let me see that!” Alistair ordered.

“Wait, there’s more!

_P.S.: I have included a message of a more personal nature for Alistair. Please make sure it reaches him timely._

_Please take care of him in my absence. Like me, he was instrumental in defeating the Blight ten years ago, and I trust his compassion and strength above any other’s. I would not go through such effort to overcome our Callings, only to lose him to your Inquisition_ ,” Ros read with a smile, then took the thickest part of the letter.

A separately packed envelope, properly sealed with a double headed griffon seal, and in the neatest handwriting it said ‘To Alistair’ on the even side. She handed the envelope to the Warden, who snatched it from her eagerly. His eyes shone like stars when he took the offer, his hands shaking a little as he pressed the letter to his heart with a smile.

“Maker’s breath… It’s been so long since I… had any word from her. I… thank you. I am sorry, may I…”

“You are excused,” Ros agreed with a nod. The Warden nodded, almost bowed, then left the campfire with the letter to return to his own tent. They saw the small lantern inside light up and could see Alistair sit down to open the letter and read it.

The group turned away, allowing him his privacy as they returned to the map.

“So, it will take us a little over a day to reach that tower, given that we can’t take the direct route and we have to travel around the canyon instead,” Cassandra explained.

“Then we make for an early morning tomorrow.” Ros confirmed. The group nodded and as they stepped away from the map, Varric stretched dramatically.

“Then I will go on and get that sand out of my boots and my gloves and my… well, _everything_.”

With these words, he retired to the tent he shared with Sera, Blackwall, and the Iron Bull, and the others did the same. Cullen held open the sheet covering the entrance to their tent for her, let her slip inside and then followed.

They were both quiet as they settled down onto the bedrolls and furs that would help them stay warm in the surprisingly cold nights in the desert. Swiftly, he had pulled her into his arms, held her close to him for good measure. Ros looked up at him.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“I am. Just… what Alistair said… how it had been so long since he heard word from his love…” he began. Ros nodded.

“It must have been at least a year since they were unable to communicate…” she lamented, remembering what the Warden had told her back in Crestwood.

“I would go mad if I had to go for so long without knowing whether you were alive or… I wouldn’t be able to bear it. I wouldn’t know what to do, if all I had to cling onto was such small, fragile hope.”

Ros rolled over until she lay atop him, her hands on his broad chest, his arms wrapped around her waist and shoulder and she smiled down at him.

“You will _never_ have to find out, my love,” she whispered before leaning down to press her lips to his gently. His hands came to caress her hair as his lips returned her kiss. “I will never disappear, never leave you, this I swear.”

“Don’t make promises you cannot keep, Inquisitor…” he whispered, his voice almost painful. Ros looked up at him, a frown on her face.

“Cullen…”

“You fight terrible enemies, Ros. Ancient… magisters, and cultists, and Archdemons… and I am left to watch you put your life in danger day after day. One day… you might not return at all. I dread that day, like nothing else. The thought of losing you forever… I don’t think I’ll-”

“Then don’t. Then believe me when I tell you that I will always find a way to return to you. Always. You saw that. No avalanche, no archdemon, no magisters, not even a breach in the sky can keep me away from you. I will _always_ find my way back into your arms, Cullen. Always.”

He hesitated a moment, then smiled. Both his hands came to cup her face and pull her back into another kiss, all lips and tongues and fingers in tousled hair and she moved against him, hips rolling, heat sparking between them. He groaned and she could feel his flesh harden against her.

“Ros…” he groaned, and before she knew it, he had rolled her over to her back, covering her body with his, pushing her thighs apart. Her name on his lips dissolved into laboured breaths exchanged between kisses, lips staying ever close, trembling with silent moans. Gazes locked, his hand traced between them to pull away her smalls. As he did, he cupped a cheek of her behind and gave her a firm squeeze, making her giggle and push her hips off the bedroll toward him. She could feel him, hardness pressed against her exposed sex, drawing something half whimper, half moan from her. Cullen chuckled soundlessly, just a rumble against her and she clutched her hand over her lips.

“You are evil!” she hissed. He leaned closer, peeling her hand away from her lips with his teeth, ever so gentle.

“I like to hear you…”

“But so will _everyone_ else in camp!” Ros hissed. And Maker! The smirk he gave her through darkened eyes was so delicious, so dangerous, so _filthy_ , it nearly took her breath away.

“Then you better try to stay quiet.”

And with these words, he moved down her body, casting aside the linen of her tunic and buried his face between her legs. Ros gasped for air, grabbing a fist full of his curls and her mouth dropped open in a silent scream of pleasure as his tongue worked its unspeakable magic between her thighs. Maker, the way it felt, so slick and focused and determined to draw sounds from her. Her thighs were trembling against his unshaven cheeks and her breaths came in heavy pants she tried to keep as silent as possible. And Maker, that was not easy. At some point, she was certain she had stopped breathing entirely, teeth digging into her lower lip to keep herself from crying out his name when he stroked a fingertip around her entrance, then pushed in slowly, all while his tongue worked her clit. She could no longer help herself.

“Oh Maker, Cullen!” she cried out, hips spasming against his tongue as she came, her body tensing up and releasing in turns, waves rippling through her, tearing her apart before she slumped back into the furs, breaths released around moans. “Cullen… you… you are… _devious_ …!” she declared. He chuckled amused, kissed her stomach just below her belly button and his hands stroked her thighs as he rested his head on the curve of her hip.

Ros hooked her fingers in the leather strip of his simple hide harness and pulled him up towards her. He complied, gladly met her lips in a simmering kiss. She could taste herself on his tongue, inhaling the smell of his skin as he melted into her embrace. She let her legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his behind, making him roll forward with a groan, pressing against her slickness. His breath came in a hot huff against the skin of her neck. The cloth was undone quickly, leaving their naked bodies pressed against each other. Cullen captured her moans in a hungry kiss when he pushed into her, silencing every sound that would otherwise escape the both of them as he drove into her in slow, deliberate thrusts. His hips rolled into hers, she met him eagerly. There were groans, she felt them rumble in his chest, and knew no matter how hard they tried to stay quiet, their muffled moans betrayed them.

She could feel his hand travel between them, fingers caressing her clit – rolling with delicate pressure that caused her to gasp, grit her teeth to bite back the cries of pleasure when she came again. She pulled him closer, could hear him groan next to her ear, his face buried in the bedroll under them. He came, with a low grunt muffled by the pillow, and she could feel the heat as he spilled in her, could feel his body tremble in her embrace.

He stayed atop her, his weight pressing down on her, warm and safe, careful not to crush her. His heart was racing, she felt it drum in his chest, against her own and she held him, caressing his dishevelled, slightly sweat-damp curls, pressing her lips against his temple. There was a little grunt when he rolled his body off her, coming to rest beside her, chest heaving in deep breaths.

Ros rolls to her side, facing him, tracing her fingertips along his bare arms until he finally turns to look at her.

“I… don’t deserve you.”

“You do. Now sleep, my mighty thane, my brave warrior, my love.”

She moved closer, until she could drape her arm over him and press a kiss to his shoulder. Cullen leaned over to press his lips to her hair, and he held her as they fell asleep. He only woke up once during that night, perhaps from an unfamiliar sound in the distance, and he found himself in her embrace, his back pressed against her. For all that he told himself he was protecting her, he found himself in her protection more often than not. 

* * *

 

There was something dark and eerie about the ritual tower. She could tell, the moment they could see it reach out from across the dunes. Like a black needle, it rose above the canyon, and she almost felt the tear of terror physically around it. It was entirely unnecessary for Solas to comment with:

“The veil is weak here…”

They could all tell it was.

As their company trudged up the slope, past scattered ruins and patrolling Venatori. Their presence here alone was reason enough to believe things were not as harmless as they had admittedly hoped. Truly, Ros had woken this morning next to Cullen, watching him still asleep, and had prayed to the Maker that everything would be fine here – that the Wardens were well, that there was no indication of Corypheus’ plans here, that they had made this journey for nothing. She wanted this to be a false alarm. But approaching this tower, she knew Alistair’s suspicions had been right. Something was very, very wrong here.

There was only one way to the tower – crossing a narrow bridge to the rock needle in the canyon upon which the tower had been built. All around it, the canyon fell into deep blackness, probably leading right into the Deep Roads. It would make sense to have access to them here, considering the strong Warden presence in this area, with old fortresses and ritual towers.

On the bridge to the tower, they were already awaited. Hawke and Fenris were holding their position here, both wrapped in cloaks to shield them from the harsh sunlight. When they approached, the both of them looked up and Hawke got to her feet.

“You made it,” she said.

“How long have you been here?” Ros asked, glancing from the Champion and her elven companion to the tower.

“Two days. Saw a lot of Warden activity,” Hawke said grimly.

“A lot of Wardens went inside, none have returned…” Fenris added, his voice akin to a growl. There was something truly feral about him, hidden behind a sharply controlled demeanor. Ros had not seen him fight yet, but she had read Varric’s book, in which he described the elf as a warrior unlike any other, with such a beast-like, brutal anger that his mere presence instilled fear in the hearts of his enemies right before he ripped them out of their chest (and then of course the infamous line that had made readers swoon: ‘The elf captured the Champion’s heart – thankfully not in his usual manner’).

“There could be another exit? Perhaps leading into the Deep Roads?” Ros suggested.

“Not that I know of,” Alistair said grimly. He drew his sword. “Whatever is in there… it’s killing Wardens.”

“It screams trap,” Cullen growled.

“I will not allow them to continue killing my order,” Alistair protested. He turns towards the entrance of the tower. Hawke nods, readying her staff and she and Fenris join the Warden as he marches forward. Varric takes his crossbow and shrugs.

“I can’t let them go in there on their own,” he says, looking up at Ros. She nods and turned to Cassandra.

“Secure the area. No one leaves without our permission.”

Cassandra nodded and turned on her heel to coordinate the Inquisition knights. Ros turned to Cullen and drew in a breath to tell him to stay with Cassandra and assist her, but he shook his head before she could even speak a word.

“No,” he said, drew his sword and readied his shield before marching ahead, joining Varric and the others. Ros smiled, shook her head lightly, then took her staff and followed them inside. The tower was simple, bland stairs leading up and the higher they came, the thicker the feeling of dread. Alistair shivered once.

“This is uncomfortably familiar…” he mumbled.

“Is it?” Hawke asked. The Warden nodded.

“Ostagar. The Tower of Ishal felt like this… But there, I had…”

He stopped halfway through his sentence. Ros wondered what he had meant to say. There, he had his fellow Wardens? There, he had his lover by his side? Had he and the Hero of Ferelden already been involved at Ostagar, she wondered.

They reached the platform atop the tower quickly, stepped out into the light and Alistair froze to the spot. Bodies were scattered in their path. Warden warrior, judging by their heavy grey and blue armour. None of them carried their weapons with them, and all of them were drenched in their own blood, their throats slit open as they had all bled out. Rivers of blood, most of it still fresh, were dripping down the steps they had just come up. The stench was foul, made Ros cover her mouth and nose in disgust.

“What happened here…?” Hawk asked in disbelief. Alistair, woken from his paralysis, stepped forward and turned one of the dead Wardens over with his boot.

“It looks like they were sacrificed…”

“Blood magic, no doubt,” Fenris snarled. Hawke groaned.

“Just like old times…”

“I swear, if we run into another mage who turned himself into a blob of bodies, I am out of here,” Varric declared, earning him a grin from the Champion of Kirkwall.

“Come on, Varric. You love it.”

“There’s sand everywhere, I have a sunburn, and there are Wardens being ritually sacrificed. You should know me well enough to know that I do _not_ love it!”

“No! This feels wrong, something’s wrong!!”

A beg with a fear riddled voice tore their attention. There was movement atop the highest platform of the tower, and the closer the got the clearer the picture became. There were Wardens gathered in a large circle around a stone table stained with dried blood. A man was bound to it – a Warden, too, judging by his armour he was an archer. A mage was standing before him, a young, blond haired man with a long, sharp ritual knife.

“Your oath is clear. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death…”

A man stood at the top of an altar, long, elegant robes clearly not those of a Warden. He held his staff by his side and was flanked by more Warden mages. But his accent and the way he dressed gave him away easily. Tevinter. Venatori, no doubt.

The Warden on the stone table glanced from him to the mage holding the knife, shaking his head.

“Caleb…” he pleaded. But the mage shook his head. He raised the hand holding the blade, it was shaking. He knew, deep down, it was wrong. But still.

“In death, sacrifice.”

He brought down the blade, pierced it into the other Warden’s throat. Blood bubbled out, the voice gurgled as red spilled over the armour, the stone table, down the floor. The blade slit his throat wide open, then the mage dropped the knife, gasping in air, overwhelmed by what he had just done. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

There was a green crackling and Ros flinched. She felt the pull of the anchor. The air crackled above the dying Warden, suffocating in his own blood, drawing his last gurgling breaths. And the moment his life slipped away, the rift above burst open, spilled its menacing insides like a gutted pig. Flames pired out, dripped on the stone and from it rose… a rage demon.

“Dammit…” Ros hissed.

“Ah, well if it isn’t the Lady Inquisitor and her brave companions!”

The Tevinter mage had finally noticed their presence, opening his arms wide in greeting. He then pointed at the mage. “Bind it now, just like I taught you!”

The mage nodded. With the dagger, he sliced into his palm and reached out to the rage demon. Green light was crackling between them, and when the demon finally bowed its head, the mage’s eyes were blood red. “Now take care of the intruder.”

The mage turned towards them, the demon slipping in through his back, filling out his body. Ros had only a moment to take in the scene of the mages, blood on their robes and hands, and the Venatori leading them to understand what exactly was happening on this tower, before she was blocked by the body of Cullen standing between her and harm. The Venatori mage laughed. “Ohohohoho, bravely he protects the object of his devotion. Are you willing to die for your false prophet bitch?”

“Watch your tongue, Tevinter!” Cullen growled. Ros saw something flash in the corner of her eyes, saw Fenris had begun to shimmer, the markings on his skin glowing blue and his hands clutched to tight fists.

“What have you done here?!” Ros asked, hoping to diffuse the explosive tenision. The mage raised his arms.

“I am freeing the Wardens of their grim fate! Together, we will face the slumbering old Gods, stronger than ever, an army like no other, each of them with the power of a demon to fuel them! If the experiments here show fruition, Commander Clarel will soon have an unstoppable army at her disposal.” the mage declared. Ros looked around, at the bodies of the bled warriors, then at the mages before them. One for each dead warrior. Realisation hit her with force.

“Maker… you all summoned demons. You bled these warriors to summon and bind demons…”

“These brave men and women gave themselves over as sacrifice for a better future. They were dying anyways, the Calling heralding the end of their lives! They gave their lives for their cause!”

“They’re creating a demon army…” Hawke murmured. Ros shivered. The demon army Corypheus was forming. This was their fate, the fate of an order of proud, honourable men and women devoted to protecting Thedas by any means necessary, to be used and sacrificed by the very thing they tried to fight. Darkspawn.

“You are using them. You sacrifice them for Corypheus!” Ros called out. The mage only laughed, and none of the Wardens reacted at all. She felt a chill crawl down her spine. She had seen this before, this apathy. They were long gone, abominations, demons wearing their bodies like costumes.

“Brothers and sisters! You are being fooled by this man!” Alistair called out. Ros just shook her head.

“They’re gone, Alistair… they’re long gone. I… I’ve seen it before…”

She remembered him so clearly. It was the same demeanour she had witnessed in Paul, just before he was overwhelmed and torn apart by the creature growing ever stronger inside him. He had no longer seen her, had barely spoken, had sat on his own, staring at nothing, sometimes smiling to himself victoriously and she should have known then that it was no longer him she saw. And the last time she had seen the real Paul glimpse through that was just before he died, when he cast her that pleading look, begging her with just his eyes to kill him before he hurt any of them.

Alistair gritted his teeth.

“Your false prophet is right, Warden. And how long before your darling hero will commit the same sacrifice? To end the Blights once and for all, how far would you go? Would you let her drag a blade across your throat, bleed you dry? Would you let her harness that power to fulfil both of your destiny? She is already an abomination. Something like her should not exist. No Warden is meant to kill an Archdemon and live, and she knows it. You both do. She should have died that night. It is time you both commit that sacrifice you swore in your oath.”

“I will not let you manipulate any more Wardens!!”

Sword and shield raised, Alistair attacked without another warning. One moment he was right by their side, the next he was attacking the Tevinter, only to be blasted backwards by the combined magic of the Warden mages. That he managed to land on his feet bordered on a miracle. He raised his shield before himself, slammed the hilt of his sword against the metal and something burned up in his eyes. Ros could feel the cracking in the air, a familiar sensation. That was a Templar power. He drained the Warden mages of their power, containing the evil of the demons. The holy fire cracked through the air, knocking the mages backwards but once the dust settled, the Tevinter mage himself was gone. Alistair’s gaze scanned his surroundings before his shoulders relaxed. “He seems gone…” the Warden said and turned. His eyes widened. “Look out!”

Ros gasped, the next moment she was being yanked around and found herself face to face with the Tevinter mage. He had both her wrists in hands, keeping her away from her staff and sword and he grinned victoriously. Red began to glow around his hand. She knew that power. It was what Corypheus had used when they had fought in Haven. Painful jolts shooting through her marked hand, Ros cried out in agony.

“I will offer The Elder One the false prophet and he will lift me up in his Imperium!”

“Ros!!” she heard Cullen call out behind her, but before he could act, Ros had kicked the Tevinter flat in the chest, sending him stumbling backward, forcing him to release her. The moment he did, she felt the magic of her anchor crackle though her. Her left clenched in a fist, green light began flashing between her fingers. With little more than a wave of her hand, she pulled the magic of the rift into her mark, making the possessed mages cry out in pain as the force of the magic pulled at the demons, threatening to drag them back into the fade.

The mage scurried to his feet, coughing, whimpering.

“Kill her! Kill the Avvar bitch!” he ordered, his voice breaking like a pubescent boy’s. And as he fled for his miserable life, the mages stepped forward. No longer mages though. They were winding in pain, writhing as the demons within were breaking through. Their skin was blistering, melting off their flesh, turning them into… abominations.

“Dammit,” Hawke growled. The abominations closed in, forcing the warriors backwards. All but for Ros. The green light of the anchor was whirling around her like a vortex of magic, a fire devouring the air around her. It grew stronger, brighter, until it tore open a roaring menacing tear above her. Like a rift, but unlike any they had ever seen. She had her marked hand raised over her head, lightning bridging between her and the rift, fingers cramped as the electricity shot through her muscles, cut into her skin even through the gauntlet. The abominations wailed as they were drawn in, sucked in by the sheer force of that new, strange rift. They seemed to be torn apart, bits of them being dragged back into the Fade, until only tatters were left. Ros tightened her left into a fist, sending a jolt of energy through the rift, making it collapse instantly with nothing but pale sparks left raining from the air above her.

Once the deed was done, the demons pulled back where they belonged, the abominations were mere husks, mindlessly roaring at them, moving closer, slashing, ready to fight, to kill anything in their way. But without demonic magic, they were just… things. And things could be killed.

Alistair was the first to spring into motion, leaping forward to bury his blade in the deformed body of one empty abomination. Hawke, Fenris, and eventually Varric followed suit. Cullen would have too, but his main priority was Ros herself. When she had closed the rift she had summoned herself, her knees finally gave out beneath her and she cried in pain, clutching her marked hand. In a blur, she saw Cullen rush to her side, felt his arms catch her. She blinked through tears at her hand. Even at first glance she could tell it was in a terrible state: The gauntlet hat burned through her clothes, the metal broken by the green lightning, driving shattered pieces into her flesh. She was bleeding, her hand trembling in pain, sobs shaking her.

“It’s alright, we’ll fix that. You were remarkable, love… you were magnificent…” he assured her, as she leaned into him, sobbing into his chest. Yes, remarkable and magnificent… and terrifying. Maker, she was terrified of her own power. She had opened a tear in the veil. Just like she had before in the mountains. But this time, everyone had seen. They all knew what she was capable of now, that she had the ability to rip open the Veil itself and leave the Fade wide open for anyone brave enough to venture in. She had the very gift the magisters of old would have fallen all over themselves to posess. The very gift Corypheus had desired for himself. He had thought she would be unable to do it, since she had interrupted the ritual. But his henchman would tell him what had happened here, that the ritual had been a success after all. After today, nothing would be the same again. And she cried about that just as much as the pain.

Maybe more.


	31. The Marked One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time coming :P In fact, i had this chapter written ages ago but I had literally no time with meeting deadlines at work and Christmas and visiting my family and all these things... but I am back!

How they had taken to return to the camp, Ros did not remember. It was all a blur. She did not know where Alistair disappeared to, or if Hawke and Fenris had vanished with him or where they had gone. The next clear memory she had after the tower was their tent in camp, voices outside that were barely audible. She was alone, sat on the cushions and held her marked hand, still trembling with pain, sobs still softly shaking her body. She thought she heard Solas argue that they still knew so little about the mark, then she heard Cullen snap at them all. It got quiet, the voices moved away and then she saw his silhouette outside, just before he came inside.

He had brought with him a bowl of water, a bottle of strong spirit, clean cloths and ointments. Ros sniffed, felt fresh tears sting in her eyes when she looked at him and she had to look away.

“I’m a monster…” she whispered.

Cullen came to his knees in front of her momentarily, put down his supplies and she felt his hand at her chin, gently making her look at him. His hazel eyes were soft, his brows spoke of worry and he slowly shook his head.

“You are not a monster, Ros.”

“You saw what I did. I opened the Veil. No one is supposed to have that kind of power.”

Cullen shook his head and glanced at her wounded hand. She wanted to pull it behind her back, hide the damage, hide the foul magic inside it, but moving it hurt, caused her to whimper in pain.

“Shhhh…” Cullen whispered. Very gently, he undid the leather straps that had held the gauntlet together still. Every inch he moved the piece of armour, metal shards cut into her skin, driving new, stinging tears into her eyes. It was nauseatingly painful and she could not help the sobs anymore. “I know it hurts, love. But I have to remove it…” he whispered.

She nodded, whimpering. He looked up, met her with a pained smile. “No more gauntlets for you.”

Ros laughed, a broken sound, then gritted her teeth together, swallowing a cry of pain when he began removing the broken metal pieces. The material had turned brittle from the magic that had surged through it, falling apart under Cullen’s touch when just the slightest pressure was applied. With every piece he removed, new wounds became visible, fresh blood filled deep cuts. Once, she was certain she saw bone shimmer through, so deep went the cut.

“It hurts so much…” she whispered.

Cullen looked up to her, a worried frown on his face.

“I thought it was better since you closed the Breach.”

“It was. For a time. It still hurts every… every time I close a rift. And that… that thing I did today. That makes it worse.”

“How long have you been able to do that?” Cullen asked, his voice soft. He removed the last piece of gauntlet, then used a knife to cut away the remnants of her sleeve. Ros glanced down. Her hand was mangled. She had broken at least one finger, the fragile knuckles standing in an unpleasant angle, and there were deep, torn cuts, none of them with nice edges that could easily be stitched together. There were marks of burns, the skin blistered from the electricity of the magic. It was a miracle she had not lost that hand. For all she knew, she would still have to take it off. The wounds reached almost to her elbow, and she was not sure if even Viviennes healing skills would be able to salvage it.

Tears welled up in her eyes again, spilling in sobs as she cried out.

“I don’t want this, Cullen, I don’t want any of this. I hate this mark, I hate that it put me here, that it made me this… figure, I hate the responsibility. And now it won’t even leave me alone!”

“Ros, how long have you been able to do that?” Cullen repeated, his voice still soft, but more insistent this time. She swallowed, looked away.

“I… did it once before. Back in Haven, during the storm. I… guess Corypheus must have somehow… unlocked it when he tried to take the anchor from me.”

Cullen shook his head.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Had I known, we would have been more careful. And we certainly wouldn’t have given you gauntlets.”

“I… didn’t want anyone to know. Cullen, my… the Andrastians believe that a power just like this caused the first Blight. They say magisters went into the Fade and tainted the seat of the Maker with their stumbling. No mortal is meant to walk in the Fade, is meant to have this kind of power, but I somehow have this… _thing_ on my hand now. If they knew, they would have killed me. That’s why I kept it secret.”

“I wouldn’t have let that happen, Ros. You should have told me. I could have protected you.”

“You can’t protect me from this, Cullen,” she said, raising her marked hand.

They both fell silent. He avoided her gaze, focused on the cleaning and dressing the wounds, she looked away from it all, avoided looking at the mark. “This will kill me.”

“Nonsense,” he refused flat out.

“You know it’s true. It will keep getting worse and one day… it will tear me apart. You know that. It’s not the… the demons or dragons or Venatori I need to fear. My own hand will kill me, before they will ever get close,” she bit her lip, forcing back the sob.

“Ros, look at me.”

Cullen’s hands closed over her wounds, she could feel the warmth of his skin through the bandages he had wrapped around the hand and his touch was gentle, with no pressure to cause her any more pain. He leaned closer, caught her gaze and made her look at him. “Ros. I will not let this thing kill you. We know what it does now, and we’ll make sure it won’t happen again. Do you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you,” she insisted, finally meeting his gaze directly. His hand came to her cheek.

“Then trust me when I tell you that I will not let this happen to you. I will not let you lose to this mark. We’ll get through this together. You and me.”

His thumb brushed over her cheek. Ros leaned towards him, forehead resting against his and – although painful – she carefully closed her fingers a little, to hold his hand. He looked up, his lips coming to hers ever so gently for a sweet kiss, before he looked at her again. “You told me you would always come back to me. I am telling you now that I believe you. Nothing is going to keep us apart, you hear? We will get through this.”

She cried, unable to speak, and he just kissed her. Both hands holding her face, he simply kissed her, quiet, gentle. He stroked her hair, caressed her cheeks, his lips lingering soft and warm on hers and eventually, he wrapped her into a close embrace. Her injured hand was out of the way, but the other she wrapped around him in return and she cried against his black lion fur until eventually, exhaustion claimed her into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

* * *

 

When she woke in the morning, it was because of loud, agitated voices just outside in the campsite. Ros blinked disoriented and rolled over to her back. She raised her injured hand, it looked freshly dressed so she guessed Cullen must have changed the bandages and had Vivienne take a look at it while she had still been asleep. There was still pain, and with every heartbeat bloodpumped through it in a uncomfortable sensation. But it was ever so slightly numb and cold, likemagic had been worked on it.

Carefully, she sat up, wrapped a blanket around herself and with her arm in a sling, she peeked out of the tent. The moment she did, the yelling stopped.

Cullen was standing with his back to the tent, arms crossed, like a protective wall facing the others that had approached. Cassandra was first in line, she had been the one yelling, Solas behind her, trying to calm the Seeker. When they noticed Ros, they had fallen silent and now looked at her. Cullen half turned, shook his head.

“Go back inside, you need rest.”

“What’s going on?” Ros asked.

“Nothing,” he grunted.

“She has to answer for this sooner or later!” Cassandra declared, made every move to storm past the Avvar thane and into the tent. But Cullen had his sword drawn, blocking her access completely. He pushed her back. “You dare-?!”

“I will not let you threaten her.”

“Seeker, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for what happened-” Solas began.

“No, there isn’t! This power… it’s... it's _unholy_! It’s the kind of power that caused the Maker to turn away from us. We have a right to know how she came by it!”

“We _know_ how she came by it. Corypheus made it clear. He sought to usurp the Fade with his ritual, she interrupted it, and by accident the orb imprinted its power on her. Corypheus thought his plan had failed, that the anchor was incomplete because she had interrupted the ritual. But it did exactly what it was supposed to do. _This_ is the kind of power only a God should wield, no mortal was meant for this. Look at her. She is in agony,” Solas lectured, stepping past Cullen towards Ros. With careful hands, he made her raise her maimed hand, she flinched under the touch. Cassandra growled through gritted teeth, started pacing.

“How long have you been able to do this?” she asked. Ros glanced away from her, seeking Cullen’s eyes, the reassurance that whatever happened, he would be with her. She found his gentle nod.

“A few… months…” she admitted.

“Before we went to Crestwood? Before we found Skyhold?”

“The night Corypheus attacked Haven. When he tried to remove the anchor from my hand he must have somehow… unlocked this power. I… kept it to myself because I was afraid of what people would think. I never wanted to use this power. But…”

“If she had not used it yesterday, we would have all been killed, Seeker,” Solas insisted. Cassandra gritted her teeth, hand still clenched around her sword, ready to draw it. But after a moment, she finally relaxed.

“You should have come forward!”

“And say what? We were barely allies then. I did not know if I could trust you. For all I know, you would have executed me on the spot if you knew what I could do! I was scared, Cassandra.”

“This power is dangerous. If you can’t control it you are a liability to all of us,” Cassandra insisted.

“How fickle your loyalty is, Seeker. Yesterday, you bowed to her as your Inquisitor, your Chosen One, now you brand her a threat and turn on her so easily. What precious values your Chantry teaches you!” Cullen mocked.

“Seeker, I know this is terrifying, but I do believe this mark too valuable to waste. She has been able to control it for months now, what would make you think she would succumb to it now? She is no more or less a threat than she has been since the moment she received this mark,” Solas reasoned. He then put a hand on Ros’ forearm, careful not to press on her wounds. “If it eases your worries, I will assist the Inquisitor in keeping the mark under control. With my knowledge about the Fade and the Veil, I am sure we will be able to prevent a power surge like yesterday’s from repeating itself. It is obviously in the Inquisitor’s interest,” he suggested. Ros nodded with a grateful smile. Cassandra remained reluctant, but eventually nodded.

“Fine. But I will keep a close eye on you. If I have any reason to believe you abuse this… power you have been given, I will cut off that hand of yours,” Cassandra growled, then glared at Cullen. “And not even he will be able to protect you from me.”

“We will see about that,” Cullen growled back. The Seeker sheathed her sword again and turned away, leaving the three behind. Only when she was out of sight did Cullen relax and turn towards Ros, who nodded quietly. Solas frowned at her.

“You should have told me. I could have helped you…” the elf said, disappointment in his tone.

“I was scared…”

“We are both outsiders in this, Trevelyan. I am an apostate elf among Chantry folk. We must support each other, not lie to each other,” Solas said sternly.

“I… I’m sorry…”

He sighed, shook his head.

“I suppose I understand why you did it. You had no more reason to trust me than you trusted Cassandra. Will you let me help you now at least? With what we are to surely face with the Wardens next, you will need full control over this power.”

Ros nodded quietly.

“I have to tell everyone…” she whispered.

“That is a terrible idea!” Solas protested. But she shook her head.

“No. They need to know, they need to trust me. This way, there will be only rumours about what happened at the tower, and rumours will grow wild and before you know it, I’ve turned into a magister myself. I have to tell them the truth, all of them. Every last soldier who came here with us. They need to know, or I will lose everything I have built here, they will turn against me and Corypheus has exactly what he wanted. Chaos.”

Solas hesitated. But eventually he nodded begrudgingly.

“You make a good case, Inquisitor. You have my support. And I am sure the Avvar will be loyal to you, no matter what.”

Solas nodded to Cullen, who was turning to stand outside the tent again and kept watch so no one else would disturb her with demands about her condition. Solas reached out a hand then. “May I?” he asked.

Ros hesitated a moment, then placed her hand in his, palm facing up so he could inspect the mark. He was very careful when he took the bandages off and inspected the rough edges of the cut. He frowned.

“It’s killing me, isn’t it?”

Solas looked up surprised, before his gaze shot past her to the exit of the tent, and the imposing silhouette of the Avvar thane. “Don’t tell him. Please…”

“I… understand,” Solas confirmed and then covered her marked hand in his in a surprisingly gentle gesture. Strangely familiar. Like her father had once covered her knee when she had fallen in the courtyard of their family estates. There was something comforting to the touch. “I fear you are correct. The mark _is_ killing you.”

“Was it something Corypheus did?”

“Possibly. When you interrupted his ritual, the anchor was not complete. He assumed you spoilt it, but if I had to guess I would say the anchor has been completed when he tried to remove it. He knows little more about the orb than we do. Now the anchor is complete… it is too powerful for a mortal body to contain. Eventually… it will tear you apart.”

“How long do I have?”

The words came quiet, less than a whisper. Solas looked back down at the mark.

“Three years. Four, maybe, if you don’t overuse it. But no more than that. If it is not removed, it will kill you.”

“Remove it? Is that possible?”

“Well, there is the option to amputate the hand, cut the anchor off, but…” Solas rolled up her sleeves, inspecting the skin from her wrist up. “I’d say taking just the hand will not be enough. Look. The power of the anchor is spreading through your flesh. You’d be lucky if we can save the elbow. To remove the anchor entirely without sacrificing the arm is unlikely. It would take the knowledge of the ancient elves who forged the orb, and such knowledge is… unfortunately lost to us.”

“Please… don’t tell Cullen. I don’t want him to…”

“Inquisitor, he deserves to know. I know it is not my right to meddle in your private life. But… he is your lover, he should be given a chance to… prepare himself.”

“I know. But… I want to tell him myself. When I am ready.”

Solas nodded in acceptance and then closed the bandages over her hand again.

“I will teach you how to gain control over the anchor. That will help you avoid bursts of energy that might worsen the state. Buy you as much time as we can. I suggest not trying to open rifts yourself again. Closing them seems comparably harmless, but opening takes its toll on you, as we have seen yesterday.”

“I… I understand.”

Solas smiled and nodded.

“Good. Then, let’s get to controlling that anchor.” 

* * *

 

It was the evening before she emerged from the tent again. Fully dressed, in fine armour – minus the left gauntlet – the heavy sword she had been given when taking command of the Inquisition at her side, and the helmet shaped like a dragon covering her hair and parts of her face. She looked regal, majestic even, fierce and by the Gods, he had never been more in love with her.

The Inquisitions soldiers that had come to the Western Approach with them had gathered as commanded, anxious to hear what their leader had to say. With rumours running wild in the camp, it was only a matter of time before they had to address it.

Cullen stood by her side, Solas with a little distance on the other. Cassandra was in the first row of the gathered soldiers, the rest of the inner circle was scattered throughout – he spotted The Iron Bull first, for obvious reasons, but as he looked further he could see more and more of them, all eager to learn what they had witnessed at the tower before.

She hesitated briefly, he could see it in the way her step halted as she stepped forward. He wanted to come to her side, reassure her, but a brief sign with her unharmed hand made him stand down. She had to do this herself. He knew it to be true, but still he wanted nothing more than support her, protect her, assure her that no matter what would happen now, he would always be at her side.

Róisín stepped forward and her presence silenced the chatter among the gathered. All eyes were on her now, awaiting her explanation.

“Inquisition!” she called out, and suddenly everyone had their shoulder squared, their attention undivided. Still, when she drew in a breath for her next words, he saw her shake a little. They would not be able to tell, they were far enough away. But he could see. It cost all his self-control to stand back, to let her do this.

“I know… you have questions. Rightly so. What happened yesterday at the tower… is everything the Chantry teaches us to fear. Mages losing control over themselves, falling prey to demons, manipulating each other to give into that power. And then… the veil tearing open and sending these demons back to whence they came, through a physical rift, created not by accident, but by willpower and magic. The same kind of magic the ancient Tevinter Magisters sought and caused the First Blight, the same kind of magic Corypheus wishes for himself.

I… have that power now.

I did not chose it, I did not want it, I still don’t really know how I came to have it. But the fact is, I _do_ have it, and I have no way of ridding myself of it. I know when I received this mark, I received a great power, and when Corypheus tried to take it from me, he… changed it. He changed… me.”

She raised the hand with her mark, the angry green glow reflecting off the armour of the soldiers before her. “I have the ability to open the veil. I will no longer conceal that from you. Perhaps, I have the ability to step through such a tear, to physically enter the Fade. I don’t know. What I do know is that I will not use this ability. I will not toy with this ability. I will not risk the safety of the people under my command, of the Inquisition, and of Thedas itself. You have made me your Inquisitior, you have entrusted me with this responsibility, the protection of Thedas against the threat posed by the Venatori and Corypheus, and I will not abuse that trust.

Solas has begun teaching me to keep the mark under control. I will still use it to close rifts in Thedas, but I will not open rifts of my own again. This I vow.

I know, my word is not much to go on. I understand that, presented with this new knowledge of my abilities, you may decide that I am unfit to lead this Inquisition. If that be the case, I will understand and relinquish command immediately.”

There was a murmur in the crowd, and Cullen’s gaze shot immediately to Cassandra, whose face was drawn with a deep frown.

“But I ask of you to consider that my loyalties have not changed, my word has not changed. I have sworn to use this ability only to protect and I will stand by that. I will stand as your Inquisitor, for as long as you will have me.”

With these words, she took a single step back. And then she waited. There were whispers in the crowd, people exchanging looks and turning to Cassandra, as if to find the answer in her. But Cassandra only stared at Ros, silent, stern, unwavering.

And then – perhaps as much to Ros’ surprise as to Cullen’s – Cassandra stepped forward, came up to face her directly.

“I made you Inquisitor, because I believed that you were meant to save us all. I believed that the Maker had sent you to us in our time of need. And all this time, you have given me no reason to doubt you. I… this ability… is dangerous, and I do not deny that I fear it. And I _will_ keep you under close watch for the time being. But… I still believe in you,” the Seeker said, loud enough for all of them to hear. Ros nodded quietly, and Cassandra reached for her unharmed hand, stopped the shaking. The Seeker nodded. Cullen saw a trembling breath come over Ros’ lips.

It was over. At least for now. He could see the confidence return to the faces of their soldiers, as the inner circle moved up towards her, expressing their support. The Iron Bull was already cracking a joke about the mark on her hand, supportively patting the much smaller mage on the back, while Varric had all sorts of questions. Between all the excitement, she turned to smile and nod at him once, and he nodded back. She was safe. He could breathe again.    


End file.
